


For The Ages Of A Day

by perkynurples



Series: Nothing Gold Can Stay [2]
Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies), The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, Original Character(s)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-25
Updated: 2015-10-13
Packaged: 2018-03-03 09:13:43
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 50,703
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2845739
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/perkynurples/pseuds/perkynurples
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Everything happens so fast in Erebor. Bilbo returns, to a life that promises well-deserved happiness, but he would be a fool to think that finding that happiness by the side of a monarch would come without its surprises and adventures.<br/>The sequel to <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1047210/chapters/2094253">Nothing Gold Can Stay</a>, at long last.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> _I left you in the morning,  
>  And in the morning glow,  
> You walked a way beside me  
> To make me sad to go.  
> Do you know me in the gloaming,  
> Gaunt and dusty gray with roaming?  
> Are you dumb because you know me not,  
> Or dumb because you know?_
> 
> _All for me And not a question  
>  For the faded flowers gay   
> That could take me from beside you  
>  **For the ages of a day?**  
>  They are yours, and be the measure  
> Of their worth for you to treasure,  
> The measure of the little while  
> That I've been long away._
> 
> Flower-gathering by Robert Frost

They're running out of time, and fast. He's used to tightly packed schedules, he's used to the stress, he's used to _a_ _whole lot of things_ thanks to everything that's been happening lately, but hurrying through the hallways, firmly ignoring everyone who even attempts to look at him curiously, Fili wonders if he hasn't... how does that favorite saying of Bilbo's go? _Bitten off more than he can chew?_ Yes, that's it.

But no. No, he can do this. He'd _promised_ he'd do this, and they're _so close,_ so damn close. They've gone through too much trouble to give up now.

“Fili! Wa-ait!”

He spins on his heel, his entourage of bodyguards somehow managing not to collide with each other as they do the same, and groans half in exasperation, half in relief, when he sees his brother sprinting down the hallway to him, _his_ security detail barely keeping up.

“Finally!” Fili cries, “where have you been?!”

“I was with _Indâd_!” Kili defends himself breathlessly, “but then I forgot my tie! So I had to run to my room, and they thought I'd gotten lost, and they were searching for me everywhere, and by the time I got back, _Indâd_ was gone, and I thought it was too late, and so I came running to find you, and...”

“Well, it's almost too late!” Fili exclaims, grabbing his little brother by the hand, “come on, we have to hurry now!”

They resume their dash, paying no mind to their bodyguards pleading with them to slow down. Too much is at stake. With his free hand, that is the one that's not assisting in keeping Kili from tripping over himself, Fili taps his earpiece, barking the second the other end of the line responds: “What's your status? Where is the King?!”

“He's on his way, Your Highness, not to worry,” replies Balin, whose voice is far too calm considering the severity of the situation, as far as Fili's concerned.

“Not good enough! I need to know he'll be in position on time!”

“Everything is under control,” Balin assures him, “as long as your end is, as well.”

“We're fine,” Fili snaps, “we're on our way to pick up Bilbo right now.”

“You're not _with him_ yet? Your Highness, if you would like me to-”

“No! We will proceed as planned! Meet you downstairs in ten minutes!”

And with that, he turns a particularly sharp corner, Kili half squealing half giggling as he is swung around, almost losing solid ground under his feet, and then they stomp up the seemingly endless flight of stairs, their bodyguards clearing the path, sending a stray guest or two on their way, and then it's just down the hallway to the left, yes, past the library... They barge into the room that is their final destination all out of breath and _definitely_ out of time, but settle down the second they lay their eyes on its sole inhabitant.

He stands in front of the mirror, fiddling with his cuffs, his shoulders squared in an anxiousness Fili recognizes far too well, but when he sees them in the reflection, a broad smile lights up his face.

“How do I look?” he asks almost playfully, Kili already hurrying to him and grabbing his hand.

Fili sizes him up and down, finally reaching out to adjust the pin on his lapel even though it doesn't really need adjusting.

“Good enough,” he says thoughtfully.

“ _Good enough?!_ Oh my god, that's not very reassuring.”

“You look awesome!” Kili exclaims, and Fili snickers, “you do, you really do, I'm sorry, that was mean. We really have to go now, though. You ready?”

Taking one last scrutinizing look in the mirror, and a deep breath which he then lets out in one determined huff, Bilbo smooths down the front of his sharp, elegant suit, and declares firmly: “I'm ready.”

 

**Sixteen Months Earlier**

 

The thing they don't tell you about Happily Ever After endings, the thing they don't mention in books, is exactly that – what follows. What Happily Ever After actually means. That life actually _does_ go on after the big final act, that one last heroism or one last pathetic sentence sealing the story shut. Or, in their case, a knock on the door followed by a kiss in the rain, which _sounds_ overwhelmingly romantic in theory, but actually turns out to be highly impractical in real life. Not that Bilbo cares – he feels so lightheaded right now, so confused and so incredibly _happy,_ that he'd probably have a difficult time caring about problems of much greater magnitude than getting sodden in late-night rain and probably contracting at least a cold.

“You are _soaking wet! And_ you were away for like a hundred years!”

Others have a more practical point of view, of course.

“Sorry, we... lost track of time?” Bilbo offers unsteadily, exchanging a glance with Thorin – once the rain got a bit too much, they did manage to move inside, but they were too busy... well, kissing the breath out of each other, there really is no better term for it, to pay much attention to their surroundings, and only heard the impatient shouting of the boys what indeed might have been a hundred years later, the two still waiting on the other end of that fortunate Skype call.

“Yeah, right,” Fili rolls his eyes, far too knowingly for Bilbo's liking, but grins when Kili asks: “So you're coming back? Can we stop pretending now?”

“What – is _that_ why you came here?!” Bilbo turns to Thorin in mock-horror, “I thought you were just stopping by on your way to see the Queen!”

Thorin's mouth hangs open, face a grimace of some amusement, some helplessness, and Bilbo can't really help it, he reaches out for the damp lapels of his coat and pulls him down for another kiss, both of them grinning too hard to actually make it work properly, but Kili still comments with a very loud: “Eww!” and Fili says, much more sternly: “Oh, save it, not now!”

“Apologies,” Thorin mumbles, never taking his eyes off Bilbo's face and his hands off his waist.

“So I guess this means you _are_ coming back,” Fili says with much satisfaction.

Thorin's arms around him are like a life jacket, making him feel safe and sound, and warmer than he's felt in in a long, long time, and Bilbo needs only glance at him to confirm what they both already know.

“I guess I am.”

“Yay! We'll stay up and wait for you!” Kili shrieks, all but toppling off his chair in sheer excitement.

“Now, hold on, I'm not coming back _that soon_ ,” Bilbo tempers his joy.

“Then when?”

“ _Indad,_ you flew there! Just get back on the plane and come home!”

“It's not as simple as all that, I'm afraid,” Thorin chuckles, “we can't be back in Erebor in a couple of hours, not even if we tried. _Definitely_ not before your bedtime, which is _right now._ ”

“No-o, come on!” both boys whine.

“Not up for discussion,” Thorin says firmly, but kindly, “you both have school tomorrow. I'm taking Bilbo back with me, I promise-” his grip tightens, and Bilbo rests his head against his chest, “but later. I'll keep you posted via Balin, alright?”

They both sigh deeply, theatrically, almost in unison.

“Fine,” Fili declares, “we'll be waiting, Bilbo!”

“I'll be there soon,” he replies.

 

That seems to appease them, because they watch them scurry off, and before the call shuts off, they are treated to the face of Balin of all people checking up on them – Bilbo gets a bit huffy and nervous, but Thorin never lets go of him throughout talking to his assistant, and even that ends soon enough, and they are blissfully alone again.

“So,” Bilbo murmurs, his hands already sneaking up Thorin's chest, “you flew here on a plane.”

“Well, yes,” Thorin chuckles, “how else did you think I was going to get here in the middle of the night...?”

“Not my point. I'm still amazed that you got here at all, you know.”

“I took the day off,” Thorin explains quietly, their faces so close now that they're the only thing the other one can see, noses brushing gently, hearts beating as one, “probably managed to declare war on at least two different countries as a result of that, but eh.”

“ _Eh?_ ” Bilbo giggles, fingers tangling in the curls on Thorin's neck, thumbs drawing circles on the sensitive skin there, “that's it? You just... decided to let the country handle itself, jumped on a plane and came to soggy London, just like that?”

“Yes. For you.”

Bilbo angles his head away just enough so that he can look into his eyes, and meets with nothing but breathtaking honesty, and adoration.

“What if... what if I hadn't been at home?” he peeps, and Thorin shrugs, his face devoid of any sign of joking when he says: “Then I would have scoured this whole country until I found you.”

Bilbo's heart flutters in his chest, and his throat tightens. He hangs his head, patting Thorin's chest feebly, and his voice comes out a little rough when he mutters: “Ridiculous. You're ridiculous.”

“I told you I couldn't wait any longer.”

“And I told you I would have always returned to you.”

“I couldn't take that chance, could I.”

There's no more room for words after that, and as Bilbo's hands travel under the hem of Thorin's coat, slowly but steadily helping him shrug the heavy soaked thing off, he wonders if it will ever really hit home. He thinks they've kissed more intensely in the past twenty minutes than they'd had in the entirety of their time together before that, and there's something frightening in that, really. Exciting, but worrying. It's his nature to doubt the good things, and frankly, he's afraid that he'll open his eyes any second now and discover that it's all been just a very good dream.

His kisses grow deeper, hungrier as a result – he needs to feel the closeness with every inch of his body, make sure that's it's really there, time and time again, and fortunately, Thorin doesn't seem to be in any kind of objecting mood.

“I'm here,” he whispers, his lips searing the words into Bilbo's neck, because _of course_ he knows that they're exactly what he needs to hear, “I'm here, I'm not going anywhere, I'm never letting you go again...”

Bilbo's muffled moan surprises them both, but never interrupts their rhythm. Thorin simply brings him closer, closer still – Bilbo isn't used to this in the slightest, and he suspects neither is Thorin, but there he is, there they are, stumbling backwards with one very clear goal in mind, and there really is no coming back from that.

Except, maybe, for a knock on the door.

Their discontented groan is almost unanimous, as is their decision to ignore the interruption, but the second knock is much louder, followed by a loud familiar call of ' _Uzbad!'_.

“Dwalin is here?” Bilbo peeps, and Thorin utters a curse under his breath, too flowery for Bilbo to translate, probably.

“He's... yes. Well,” Thorin mumbles, still highly reluctant to be parted but an inch from Bilbo, “if I don't respond soon, he might in fact knock the door in.”

Bilbo lets out a shuddering sigh, putting some distance between them, but Thorin doesn't move, simply gazes at him with an intensity that makes him question that decision, eyes dark and gleaming in the dim glow of Bilbo's weak light bulbs, and the fact that he's standing there, _really there,_ in his apartment, catches up with Bilbo fully. He makes to get closer again, and Thorin doesn't seem to want to protest...

The third knock makes them both wince and hasten to answer the door side by side, if only to just get a bit of peace.

Dwalin stands there all stern, his jaw set tight and his entire posture a beacon of impatience.

“Yes, how can we help you?” Thorin asks entirely too giddily, and Dwalin looks at him with a surprise and disbelief that are nothing short of comical – Bilbo can't help it, he bursts into laughter, quickly muffling it with his hand when the Head of Security shoots him a much sharper glance.

“Hello,” Bilbo peeps, and Dwalin's response is a grumpy rumble, nothing more.

“Can't be in the open like this,” he reminds Thorin curtly, “we should move you to the hotel.”

“You're going to a hotel?” Bilbo asks meekly, and Thorin hisses as if he's just remembered.

“Right, yes, we should, uh...” he assesses the situation with an epic lack of eloquence, staring at Bilbo as if he can help him figure it out – as it is, the only thing Bilbo knows with absolute certainty is that being parted from him right now is a horrendously displeasing notion to say the least.

“Can't I stay here?” Thorin asks almost like a kid begging for a treat, and Dwalin rolls his eyes and launches into quick Khuzdul full of _security risks_ and _too much dangers_ , maneuvering all of them back inside, presumably because it's safer, and by the time they're all crammed in Bilbo's tiny living room, Thorin and him have started bickering, and as... oversensitized as Bilbo still is, he decides that it would be best to steer clear for now.

Thorin's eyes still follow him across the room as he moves to put the kettle on and fish out three mismatched mugs, and Bilbo smiles throughout it for his benefit, and his brain slowly, slowly starts to calm down and cope with the magnitude of the situation.

This is what you get, then, after Happily Ever After – a monarch and his bodyguard in your tiny apartment, and tea. Bilbo quite likes it.

“ _Ghelekh, ghelekh_ _,_ ” Dwalin exclaims at last, and Bilbo pretends not to perk up and listen more closely, “fine. You _do not_ leave this apartment, either of you.”

“Shouldn't be a problem,” Thorin utters casually, and Bilbo snorts an entirely undignified laugh, masking it as a cough.

“I'll have men stationed outside at all times, and I'll come pick you up in the morning, 8AM sharp, and we'll be on our way back to Erebor. _Are we understood?_ ”

 _That_ is clearly aimed at Bilbo, and he nods fervently.

“Absolutely. Yes. 8AM. Tea?”

Dwalin glares at the steaming cup being offered to him as if he's trying to make the liquid start boiling again, and Bilbo retracts his arm slowly.

“Are you coming?”

“Am I – huh?” Bilbo stammers.

“Are you coming with us?” Dwalin repeats slowly, as if talking to a child.

“Am I coming – well, I should think so, I mean...” Bilbo babbles, looking from him to Thorin, something slightly uneasy uncurling in his chest.

“What Dwalin is trying to ask so charmingly,” Thorin interjects, “is... can you? I don't suppose you can't just... pack up and leave overnight?”

“Oh,” Bilbo sighs, then as the realization dawns on him, “oh.”

 _Also_ an interesting aspect of what happens after Happily Ever After.

“Well, I, I... There's this place, I'd have to call my landlord, and, and all my things of course, and, ah...”

His voice dies off on its own, and he gapes at Thorin somewhat helplessly – he hasn't had a coherent thought since he found him on his doorstep, and now that his brain is starting to process things somewhat normally again, it turns out to be a highly troublesome undertaking.

“I want a decision by the morning,” Dwalin declares simply, and before Bilbo can say any more,

Thorin comes up to him, and he utters something in quiet Khuzdul that Bilbo neither catches nor translates, and Dwalin's shoulders sag, in what's equal parts resignation and relief, and he rolls his eyes, nodding to Thorin curtly, before spinning on his heel and striding right out of the apartment again.

Propelled by some strange need to watch, Bilbo hurries to the window and sees him already on the phone, issuing orders no doubt, and something within him constricts a little bit, something worried.

“Is this more trouble than it is worth?” he asks somewhat unsteadily.

“Absolutely not,” Thorin replies quietly, and almost startles Bilbo by how close behind him he's standing.

Most importantly, he's warm, and tall, and there, and _his,_ and Bilbo needs every ounce of that comfort. He sets the still steaming mug of tea down on the windowsill behind them and proceeds to wrap his arms around Thorin's waist, seeking his own personal anchor in his steady gaze.

“I want nothing more than to leave with you right now,” he murmurs somewhat feebly, “or... the morning, whenever.”

“I want nothing more than for you to come,” Thorin says softly, “but I did spring this on you really quite... quite suddenly, and I'd rather have you deal with everything properly before coming back to Erebor.”

“Oh, _dealing_ with things,” Bilbo whines, hugging Thorin tighter and resting his cheek against his chest, “I hate dealing with things.”

Thorin chuckles quietly, pressing a quick peck on the top of Bilbo's head.

“So do I. I'd say 'let's leave it until the morning', but...”

Laughter comes so easily to him, it's refreshing. He looks up at Thorin again, just to watch, just to _see_ , and the idea of not following him absolutely anywhere he goes from now on is simply out of the question. _Everything happens so fast in Erebor,_ Bilbo is reminded. And Thorin brings Erebor with him, of course.

But this is real. This is it. Bilbo doesn't want to spend another minute in this apartment alone, knowing that he could be by Thorin's side, and yet... _We have all the time in the world,_ he wants to tell him. _Or at least that's what I'm planning on giving you. And if I can't in fact leave in the span of a couple of hours because_ real life _simply doesn't allow for that, then that's alright, because... because no matter what, I'm always headed your way. Always._

“I need a couple of days, I think,” he murmurs, and even though he feels Thorin tense up under his touch, he continues steadfastly, “to, you know... pack? Talk to the bank again, oh, they're going to hate me there, and so will my landlord, poor sod, I'll have to give him an advance or something. The last time I left, it took me the night to pack, but then I wasn't really thinking straight, you know. Is there a flight to Erebor on Friday, do you think? Wait, where will I stay? ...Thorin?”

The unceasing gentle rapping of rain is the only sound filling the space around them for the next couple of seconds, as Bilbo re-learns how to withstand Thorin's piercing gaze, on the breathtaking side of besotted, if Bilbo is any judge of that.

“Hey,” he pats his chest softly, “do I have to look for a hotel? You know, I can't just traipse back into the Palace like that, can I?”

“Why not?”

“Why n- well. I mean...”

“If you're under the impression that I'm letting you stay in a _hotel,_ then I suggest you think again.”

“Thorin,” Bilbo gulps, half amused and half a tad uneasy still, “I can't just... This is not how it works. What would I do there? I mean...”

“Your job, of course.”

“My – my job,” Bilbo repeats feebly, and Thorin simply quirks an eyebrow, as if he can't quite understand what the big issue is, as if it's all just _so simple._

“Yes, your job,” he says perfectly calmly, “we _just_ told the boys you're coming back, how exactly did you think that was going to happen?”

He's smiling still, and Bilbo wonders where that part of him that always has to doubt everything even comes from. Maybe this is just _too much_ happiness at once, and his brain is overloaded. Yes, that sounds like a sensible explanation.

“So, uh,” he clears his throat, his hands still on Thorin's chest, lifelines making sure he is in fact still there, “I go back, I get my old job back, nobody kicks up a fuss, and we're... you and me, that is...”

Thorin gazes at him expectantly, and Bilbo knows, is absolutely certain that nothing, _nothing_ is ever that simple, but perhaps, for once in his life, he's willing to believe the opposite for just one night.

“One, um... one question,” he manages weakly, Thorin's breath already hot on his cheek, his hands on the small of his back successfully steering the conversation elsewhere.

“Yes?”

“Will I have to read through another one of your contracts?”

And with that, Bilbo has a laughing monarch in his living room and his arms alike, and all earthly worries pale in comparison with that, really.

“We'll see. Now,” Thorin exhales against his neck, “let's leave the rest until the morning.”

 

A line like that, straight out of a seedy paperback romance novella, should for all intents and purposes lead to... well, pretty much anything but Thorin nodding off on the couch twenty minutes later when Bilbo prepares them a late-night snack. Bilbo watches him fondly, leaning on the kitchen counter and munching on his sandwich, and he would laugh if it weren't the sweetest possible outcome of all this. When was the last time Thorin slept, anyway, what with everything that's happened? When was the last time he got a second's rest? He traveled to Bilbo's doorstep _in the middle of the night,_ for crying out loud, probably ran straight out of a meeting or something, and he looks so inherently peaceful for once, so normal – Bilbo commits that sight to memory, his head drooping off to the side, his hair still damp, his lips apart a tad, his even breathing, and thinks of all the times he's watched him on TV in these past couple of weeks, how distant he'd always seemed, how unreachable and unreal.

How much it had made Bilbo ache, and how far from any sort of pain he is right now.

How he woke up this morning thinking about his future in grey, bleak tones, and how everything changed and his world gained color again with one knock on the door.

How Happily Ever After is coming his way, and he has absolutely no intention of letting it pass him by.

The bed is too small for the two of them, and Thorin apologizes and grumbles and doesn't fit under the blanket, but it takes mere minutes of Bilbo's mostly one-sided conversation whispered into the crook of his shoulder to lull him back to sleep, and perhaps the great stories are supposed to go a bit differently, but for Bilbo, this is pretty much as perfect as it gets.

He wakes up to a warmth that his bed hasn't known for years upon years, and Thorin and him are in the middle of reassuring each other that last night really was just the beginning of something rather wonderful when reality announces itself in the form of Dwalin, yet again, and neither of them are in the least willing to let go, but both of them know they must.

“I'll get you in touch with Balin,” Thorin rambles while getting dressed, entirely too tall and gangly for Bilbo's tiny bedroom, “he'll help with everything, get you a flight out, figure out the financial issues with your bank, whatever they are, but I don't think there should be much trouble beyond that. But if you do need anything, please don't hesitate to let me know and I'll... make sure...”

Even after all this time apart, it seems that Bilbo still possesses the knack for stealing his words away, and thank this or that willing deity for that.

“Stand still, will you,” he smiles softly, and goes about adjusting his tie, and everything is perfect, and familiar, and easy, and even the bitter taste of having to see him out of his door soon is mellowed somewhat by the fact that Bilbo will follow him shortly after.

“Come back to me,” Thorin orders him, or perhaps pleads with him, Bilbo doesn't know which he likes more, but he isn't given any time to figure it out, because those words are accompanied by a kiss, and, well, they haven't quite finished what they started last night _or_ this morning, which makes the fact that Dwalin is waiting outside rather impatiently, rather inconvenient.

“Soon,” Bilbo breathes out against Thorin's lips, finding his forearms to stop both their fumbling before it gets _really_ inconvenient and possibly hindering, “soon. It will have to... have to wait, I'm afraid.”

Thorin voices his immense displeasure with a low rumbling hum that sends a thoroughly disarming tingle up Bilbo's spine, but Dwalin intervenes once again, a sharp knock on the door, evidently forever destined to be a full stop to their desire. Oh well.

Their breathing takes a moment to calm down, but then it's the brisk morning breeze swelling Bilbo's chest and chilling his cheeks, and there are at least three massive cars nowhere near the general vicinity of inconspicuous waiting to whisk Thorin away, and far too many guards and far too much _Dwalin_ to do anything but nod and smile at each other, and hope that that's reassurance enough for both sides.

Thorin looks back over his shoulder twice before he enters his car, and Bilbo stands on his doorstep and watches him leave, watches the little familiar flags fluttering on the bonnets of the cars all the way to the corner of the street, and he's freezing and barefoot, but also the happiest he's been in a very long time. Only when he notices the old woman across the street staring at him through her lacy curtains along with her cat does something within him click, and he realizes what a show he must have given his neighbors.

He flutters his fingers at her in a giddy greeting, and she frowns and shakes her head, and he walks back inside giggling to himself, rubbing some sense back into his cold arms.

Definitely time to get the hell out of here.

 

Which is apparently easier said than done. If it were up to him, he'd be packed and on the airport within the day, but there are... things to deal with, god. Salvaging at least some of the reputation he's built up with his landlord over the years, for example. Telling him ' _no, I don't think I'm coming back at all this time_ _'_ is probably not the way to go, and so he makes up something about an urgent matter or an emergency of some kind, and firmly ignores the man trying to press it further.

Balin does get in touch with him, incredibly fast, _everything happens so fast in Erebor,_ and basically confirms what Thorin himself had told him – that Bilbo will be getting his job back at the _Hurmulkezer,_ that yes, it is a bit unusual, but then again what about this is in any way ordinary, and that he's not to worry about much at all, everything will be explained to him in great detail once he gets there.

“Do you want me to inform the others that you're coming?” he asks as well, and sounds so business-like about it, but laughs the second Bilbo lets out and excited _ooh,_ declaring, “the boys know, of course, simply because they won't stop bugging me about it. But I thought it might be a rather nice surprise for everyone else.”

“Oh, yes, I mean no, don't tell them,” Bilbo all but bounces up and down, maneuvering with his phone _and_ an armful of his folded shirts between the stacks of the rest of his clothes on his bed and floor.

“Very well. We shall see you on Saturday, then. I'll send someone who... isn't Bofur to pick you up at the airport, what do you say.”

Bilbo laughs out of sheer glee – realizing that going after Thorin comes with a side of reuniting with all his friends is something that's only ever hit him very recently, and it's making him impatient in all the good, exhilarating ways.

“Yes, that would be nice, thank you very much.”

“You are very welcome. And Bilbo?”

“Yes?”

“We are all very glad you're coming back.”

 

No one gladder than him, that's impossible. Except perhaps for Thorin, who calls him on the eve of his departure, when Bilbo's in the middle of packing his last suitcase, and he doesn't really have anything in mind, it turns out – they spend what might be minutes or an hour talking about nothing of particular importance, Thorin repeatedly dismissing him when Bilbo asks him if he should be somewhere else. Both of them are very simply glad to hear the other's voice, and so Bilbo talks to Thorin about his shirts, and his socks, and his travel documents and whatnot, and Thorin talks about the boys, and the plants that Bilbo had placed in his apartment all that time ago, and that have apparently survived and are waiting for him almost as eagerly as the King...

By the end of it, Bilbo is sitting on his bed grinning like an absolute dork, and he falls asleep that night saying goodbye to all the dark empty corners of his teeny tiny place, and dreams of mountains.

They are also the first thing he sees when the plane soars low over the country of Erebor, and he _knows_ he isn't dreaming, but at the same time, the fact that this is how _good_ his reality now is will take some getting used to, no doubt.

No doubt.

His heart tolls like a bell from the second he sees the board with his name, in the hands of a generic _Hurmulkezer_ employee, and it never stops, and he spends the drive through the city practically plastered to the car window, taking everything in. Erebor is snowed in in an almost fairytale manner, everything white and pristine and dreamlike, but otherwise unchanged, and Bilbo's heart soars.

 _Welcome to Erebor,_ his phone pings with a belated message, and he resists the urge to thank it out loud.

In his overjoyed delirium, he half expects everyone to be waiting for him at the doorstep, much in the same way they saw him off last year, as if they haven't moved all that time, but in the end he's glad it isn't so – the gravel crunches under the soles of his shoes when he steps out of the car, and the freezing air fills his lungs, and he is overwhelmed for the very first time.

He simply stands there motionless for an inappropriately long amount of time, probably, and blinks against the sharp cut of the alpine breeze, and grins up at the splendid white mass of the Palace, deep breaths, deep breaths Bilbo Baggins, if you pass out now you might wake up and realize none of this is actually happening...

He turns around in a circle, says hello to the park, to the statues wearing heavy coats of snow, to the labyrinthine pathways, to the chestnut trees stripped bare but still imposing, breathes Erebor air in long thirsty gulps, and when he turns back to face the staircase, Balin is descending it, and Bilbo fights to overpower yet another entirely inappropriate urge, to run up to him like an excited kid.

“Welcome back,” the Chief of Staff greets him kindly and shakes his hand firmly with both of his, and Bilbo finds he is quite speechless, and so he only beams back at him.

Fortunately, it seems to be enough, because Balin summons people to take care of Bilbo's luggage, and proceeds to lead him inside and describe to him seemingly everything at once, and Bilbo can only stumble after him and try to take everything in.

The interior is still decked out in some remnants of festive decorations, apparently remaining in place on account of Fili's upcoming birthday, and crowds of people are hurrying here and there, some faces familiar, some less so, and it's like a whole big part of Bilbo's mind comes back to life – he'd worked so hard on repressing the ache that was leaving this place, plugging that gaping chasm of heartbreak and shame, but it all comes pouring back in. He could find his way through the hallways blindfolded, and he wants to go everywhere at once, see if his favorite armchair in the library is still there, if they finally managed to repair the floor down by the kitchens, if... if...

“Huh?” he mumbles, realizing they've stopped and that Balin was asking him something, but the man offers no explanation, simply winks at him, inclining his head toward the staircase, and if Bilbo didn't understand at first what's going on, then the familiar elated shriek makes things very clear.

“Bilbo!”

It's Kili – actually, it's both of them, but the younger Prince is the infinitely more animated one, throwing his hands up in the air and barreling down the stairs at the speed of light, leaving his confused guard and his older brother alike in his wake.

“Kili, hello – _oof!_ ”

The boy launches himself into Bilbo's arms and he doesn't protest in the slightest, the happiest laughter coming out of nowhere as the Prince babbles _you're here's –_ Bilbo lifts him off his feet for a moment, making him squeal joyfully, and people are looking, but most of them are smiling as well, and really, appearances are the last thing Bilbo cares about right now.

Fili descends the stairs in a much more dignified manner, but when Bilbo grins and offers him his hand, he scoffs at him fondly and goes for a hug as well, deriving much satisfaction from squeezing Bilbo's ribs until he grunts.

“You're back!” Kili says for about the hundredth time, shining like the sun, and he never lets go of Bilbo's hand, and Fili hooks their arms together and orders: “Come on!”

Bilbo shoots a look to Balin, who only nods kindly, and then he is being dragged away by his boys, and both of his hands are currently too occupied to wipe away the stray tear or two that have welled up in his eyes.

 

If there is a better way to spend the first couple of hours back in Erebor than listening to the Princes' excited and chaotic retelling of everything they've been through while Bilbo was gone, then he doesn't know of it (or, well, maybe he does, but Thorin isn't even in the building right now, as he's been discretely informed). The kids' quarters have been rearranged slightly, for Fili to have more privacy apparently, but it's touching that neither of them want to live entirely separated from the other just yet.

They haven't aged a day, and are just so incredibly happy to see him and tell him _everything,_ and Bilbo sits at the carpet where he's sat hundreds of times before, and he just wants to close his eyes and inhale these moments forever. He used to be so desperate about it, wondering which one was going to be his last, wondering where and how it was all going to end, and the most miraculous thing about this all is, thinking back on those miserable couple of weeks before he left here last year doesn't make him anything worse than slightly embarrassed with himself. He's here now, he's _home,_ and none of it is going away so far.

“Oh, wow, what time is it?!” he exclaims when he notices that it has somehow gone dark outside, at one point or another.

“It's not even five yet,” Fili waves dismissively, “it gets dark so soon, ugh.”

“Hmm,” Bilbo agrees, “still, I should probably... I don't know, see if I'm wanted anywhere? You know?”

“No-o,” Kili decides, curled up in his lap like a kitten, with the _actual_ kitten, Muzmith, purring in his arms, and Fili sniggers and adds a very casual: “Uncle won't be back until later.”

Bilbo turns a shade of crimson, but then he rewards Fili with a mock-frown and a dry: “Yes, I know _that,_ thank you. But there are still other people I'd like to say hi to, you see? I don't even know where my luggage is, either.”

“Thorin's quarters, probably,” Fili shrugs, inspecting his nails, and Bilbo glares at him until he relents and sticks out his tongue at him, giggling, making Bilbo chuckle.

“Right, well,” he declares, disentangling his and Kili's limbs and getting up with a huff, “I'll go see what's what, and I'll either meet you boys at dinner or sooner, agreed?”

“Agreed,” Kili moans, and Fili merely shows him a thumbs-up.

“You two behave. Fili, don't think I've forgotten about that writing assignment, we're still doing that. Kili, get changed already.”

They wave him off with a chorus of mildly appreciative grunts and mumbling, and go about their business swiftly, and Bilbo can't help it – he stops at the door and watches them, Kili looking for something in the mess of shelves under his bed, talking to the cat while he does it, and Fili booting up his computer, and he opens his mouth to tell them something, but then refrains. This is enough – this is evidently all that it takes, to come back. It's like he never left.

It's like he never left...

He walks through the cozy maze of the _Hurmulkezer_ without any particular goal in mind, but his feet still carry him to the staff building, sure as day. The courtyard is quiet and surprisingly empty, and he lingers there for a while, looking up at the windows ahead, alight with a warm glow, shadows of people moving inside, and he has a moment of profound gratitude, to what or whom he does not know.

Snow starts to fall, large, heavy flakes of it slowly covering the ground in a whole new layer of pristine softness, hissing quietly as it settles, and Bilbo closes his eyes for a moment, and simply listens, hands shoved in his pockets, epically under-dressed and fantastically contented. Behind him, the massive warm heart of the Palace beats in unison with his own, and it is not a matter of _believing_ he is actually back, not anymore – there is the excitement of visiting a place one's been to a couple of times before, recognizing visuals and sensations and people and buildings, and then there is the blissful calm and all-encompassing relief of homecoming; and Bilbo knows exactly which one he's experiencing.

“ _Mahal_ , it _is_ you!”

He's jolted out of his pleasant reverie by yet another person incredibly eager to greet him – this time it's Bombur, carrying a massive box of groceries up to the kitchen, but setting it aside by the entrance and nearing Bilbo with an almost suspicious look to his eyes, but his grin betrays him.

“Bilbo!”

“Yes, yes it is me,” Bilbo huffs a laugh, suddenly very aware that he's getting rather chilly.

“I can't believe this! Well, I mean, I heard rumors, but...”

“ _Rumors?_ What _rumors_ have you heard? I wasn't aware that – _oof!_ Oh, you people have got to stop doing that!” he dissolves into laughter proper when Bombur envelops him in a bear hug, knocking all air out of his lungs much more successfully than the Princes could have ever hoped to achieve.

“So you're what? Back on the payroll?” Bombur demands, sizing him up and down as if to determine the damage.

“Something like that, it's... well,” Bilbo stutters, and the chef's grin is blinding as he pats him on the shoulder, making him stagger a bit.

“No worries about gossip,” he says a bit mysteriously, but then booms, “well, you're here, that's all that matters! Come on, the others will be _so_ excited to see you!”

 

Patience has always been one of his virtues, and between Bofur's comically befuddled grimace that doesn't go away for hours after Bilbo appears on the cafeteria's doorstep, and Bombur's Mirjam stuffing him full of her famous meatballs, and everyone else coming in and recognizing him and needing to know what he's doing here and how he got here and will he be staying now, it is easy to forget what he _really_ wants, with an increasing intensity.

That is... _of course_ he wants nothing more than to swap stories with his friends, and sit in the armchair he loves so much, and drink tea, and watch his very first Ereborean news broadcast of the year, but it is there, laying his eyes on Thorin on the telly, looking incredibly important and incredibly handsome, that Bilbo's yearning to be with him, right now, wherever, hits him in full.

The tea is delicious, and the people are merry and he's so infinitely comfortable right where he is, but no one will begrudge him his daydreaming, about one very specific room on the top floor of the palace, and creaking floorboards, and warm arms and a warm smile.

“I always knew you were going to come back,” Deidre tells him almost conspiratorially if it weren't for everyone else listening in, “I'm just sorry I didn't bet anyone on it.”

“I'm... flattered?” Bilbo frowns in confusion, and she laughs along with the rest.

“You should be! It was about time, too!”

Bilbo simply smiles, and doesn't really worry about explaining anything to them, or about how much they know, aside from Deidre herself, of course, who knows _everything,_ always. The time for all of... that, for important decisions and for learning what being by Thorin's side _really_ means, will all come later, he knows. _Let's leave the rest until the morning._ His heart tugs in one very obvious direction at that point, and there is only so much postponing it can take...

 _All the time in the world,_ Bilbo reminds himself. _All the time in the world, and it will be wonderful,_ he concedes as the day slowly wraps up – he almost comes late for the boys' dinner, but eats utterly at peace with them, then helps them around a little bit, a routine he was once so used to and apparently still is, and then goes right back to his friends, because he still... doesn't really know where his luggage is, or what else to do, and it's very nice. He feels oddly privileged, to stroll around the Palace like this, without a schedule, without responsibilities.

The infamous number one Erebor show host Theo Gabilaz is on when he re-enters the staff building, and they have a grand time watching him – Thorin's New Year's coming out is an incredibly popular topic, will be for the next decade or something, Bilbo suspects, and the jokes about it are fortunately very tasteful and all in all admiring in their nature, and he ends up feeling... proud, of all things, but also like he needs see Thorin _right. Now._

Which is why, after making one more detour to read a goodnight story to the Princes – the ancient copy of Tom Sawyer he'd given Fili is waiting for him on the boy's table like the most beautiful invitation – he doesn't waste any more time. Finding Balin isn't difficult at all this time, and he is very politely and secretively informed, without asking one might add, that yes, his luggage is in fact waiting for him in the King's quarters, as is the inhabitant himself.

He's home. He'd spent so much time back in England being desperate, and numb to everything, and always, always cold, and he thought that that was simply how things would be for him, for the rest of his life – but right now, he's the happiest, most alive, most secure he's felt in a lifetime, and that's how he knows. He's home. Finally.

The top floor of this wing of the Palace is quiet, peacefully so, and he meets almost no one on his way up, his feet carrying him swiftly to the one and only destination that really matters anymore. He does falter a bit when he meets with the wall of bodyguards between him and Thorin's quarters, but they let him in without a single word, and the door opens, and the floorboards creak under the soles of his shoes, and the plants are really there on the windowsill, very much alive, and soft music is coming from somewhere, and Bilbo takes a breath and closes the door behind him.

Thorin is in the bedroom, Bilbo can hear him, and wonders briefly where his father is – the only person he hasn't greeted yet today – but everything ceases to matter when Thorin strides out into the living area and sees him.

There is the blissful calm and all-encompassing relief of homecoming, and then there is the utter surety, the steady happiness and physical warmth, of seeing where your heart belongs.

“Hi,” Bilbo exhales, and there's no one coming to knock on the door to interrupt them, not today, and Thorin's arms are every bit as warm as he's dreamed them, and each kiss an affirmation – he's home.

 


	2. Chapter 2

“Maybe I'll start jogging again.”

The bout of laughter reverberates through both their chests, and Bilbo heaves up on his elbow to look at Thorin properly, his face a perfect grimace of amused disbelief, which Thorin attempts to fend off with looking perfectly serious – lasts him about five seconds, really.

“I used to jog,” he answers the question Bilbo didn't ask, and he giggles some more, looking outside the window, the snow storm currently whipping the Palace from all sides nothing more than an impressive view from the cozy warmth of their bed.

“I believe you,” Bilbo grins, “though when I suggested coming up with a way to spend your free mornings productively, that's not exactly what I had in mind.”

“Oh?” Thorin plays clueless, his hand sliding under the thin fabric of Bilbo's t-shirt with ease, finding the hot skin of the small of his back, “what _did you_ have in mind?”

“Something _productive,_ I said,” Bilbo frowns, but is already curling up closer to him, a victory in and of itself.

“Mmhm. Jogging is very productive.”

“So is remembering to eat breakfast.”

“So is this,” Thorin's smile spreads into a wolfish grin quite involuntarily when his fingertips trailing the hem of Bilbo's boxers bring about the desired effect, Bilbo losing a bit of his concentration, eyelashes fluttering.

“Oh, I beg to differ,” he scowls, but has absolutely no intention of moving but an inch from where he is, Thorin knows.

“It's Sunday,” he murmurs, his arm wrapping around Bilbo's waist, and when he doesn't budge, Thorin moves instead, rolling him onto his back so effortlessly it's almost breathtaking.

“We are perfectly allowed one entirely unproductive morning a week,” Thorin tells him, and Bilbo is still hiding behind an adorable mask of dignified disagreement, but a smile of his own is already beginning to tug at the corners of his mouth.

“Well, seeing as this is my _first_ morning back here,” he says softly, hands settling on Thorin's back now, small but endlessly warm, “I'll have to take your word for it, and blame you should I get into any trouble.”

“Fair enough,” Thorin mumbles against his lips.

_His first morning back here._ He remembers all of their previous mornings together, scarce as they had been , but it's as if they are years away, in another world entirely, a time that doesn't matter now. They've gotten a second chance, one that Thorin thought would never come, and they _are_ going to make the best of it. They're going to continue, _and_ start over at the same time, and it will be _good,_ he is certain of that much.

The sound Bilbo makes in the back of his throat is a wordless agreement, and his fingers clutch at the fabric of Thorin's t-shirt with more urgency, but no haste. There is no need for haste, Thorin reminds him, his kisses parting with Bilbo's lips only reluctantly, but soon finding the path down the line of his jaw and to his neck equally as exciting. He is all soft curves and smooth skin, and Thorin can feel his breathing and heartbeat alike when he bothers the crook of his neck with his beard, something he'd discovered early on is a surefire way of tipping Bilbo's breathing just so onto that very nice side of erratic.

There is _so much_ he does not know about him, about what brings him pleasure most efficiently, and he longs to learn everything right here, right now. Bilbo hasn't even been back for twenty four hours – Thorin is convinced that anyone would agree that that is justification enough for one morning spent avoiding duties.

_All the time in the world,_ Bilbo had told him last night, and it is a thought that grounds Thorin – he's never had _all the time in the world_ for anything, has been conditioned to believe that everything fades eventually and usually uncomfortably quickly. He still harbors that fear about Bilbo as well, some tiny worrisome part of him does, but as it is right now, he's a living breathing proof of the opposite in Thorin's very arms, and it's very difficult to argue with that.

“How long do we have?” Bilbo exhales, his hands all over Thorin's body already hoping for _forever,_ and the answer presents itself, really.

It's all vastly uncharted territory for Thorin – or, to be more exact, a once charted territory that has lain unvisited for far too long, all the tracks almost lost after all this time – but he braves it with vigor nevertheless. Bilbo is pliant and soft underneath him, until, of course, he isn't, and their hips rock together slowly, lazily, two measly layers of fabric not doing any sort of impressive job of reducing the heat between them. Bilbo smiles into his kisses, and his fingers tangling in Thorin's hair send very agreeable messages tingling all the way down his spine and into the slowly unfurling knot of pleasure in his gut.

Bilbo decides, true to his daring nature, to suck at Thorin's bottom lip, trouble it with his teeth some before lapping at the nonexistent damage as if he's apologizing, and Thorin shudders and rumbles appreciatively, thinking, _you don't even know. You don't even know what you're doing to me, and if you do, congratulations on winning this round, and please never stop._

But Bilbo does seem to have a perfectly crafted plan in mind, because he tugs at the lacing of Thorin's soft pajama bottoms, undoing them swiftly and yanking them down with no small amount of determination, chuckling breathlessly when Thorin comments on that progress with a surprised gasp.

But very soon, it is Bilbo's deft fingers closing around the length of them both, and that is an argument so compelling Thorin doesn't even dream of disproving it.

“Bilbo-” he aims for his name, but ends up with a broken little sound, but Bilbo is smiling anyway, cheeks flushed a lovely shade of rosy pink, eyelids heavy, and he's Thorin's entire world in that moment.

Nothing matters anymore, nothing but the shared rhythm of their breathing, equally erratic now, and the soft sounds, sheets rustling and wood creaking, and the howling of the wind outside, and there are many things Thorin wishes he were able to say, but cannot, if for a lack of courage or simply for a lack of air.

And so he attempts to relay them through the kiss Bilbo pulls him into, and another one, and another, until they can't but hold on, faces inches apart, Bilbo panting out what might be the beginnings of Thorin's name, but might also be simple, wordless adoration, and it's fantastic either way.

Thorin finishes first, a choked grunt and the struggle not to collapse and crush Bilbo with the entirety of his weight _just yet_ – no, exerting the strength needed to keep his eyes open and watching him as he scrunches his shut, biting on his bottom lip as he continues to stroke them both towards his own climax, that's infinitely more satisfying. His back arches almost desperately when it does come, and Thorin envelops him in an embrace, holding him tight and breathing hot into his neck until he's done convulsing and latches onto him as well, sated and pliant, the mess be damned.

Thorin looks at him, to check and confirm, and Bilbo is smiling still, wide and lazy and happy, snickering into the kiss Thorin presses to his lips, murmuring as they keep close, noses brushing, not allowing any of the warmth between them to dissipate any time soon: “Very productive.”

Thorin laughs quietly and shakes his head, muting Bilbo's continuing chuckling with more gentle pecks, until neither of them are laughing anymore.

Outside, the storm rages on.

 

He's never quite considered _not_ concentrating on his work – he's very good at it, very good at casting everything else aside and never resting until the job gets done... _Excellent_ at using his work as a means of an escape, so that he doesn't have to think, so that it becomes his life. And it does very much define him, but if the past couple of months have taught him anything, it's that only he gets to decide _how._

Coming out is probably the most incredibly rushed decision he's ever made, but it has opened up a whole new world of opportunities for him (and the rest of the world alongside him), and that's why he did it after all, isn't it? To be with the person he loves, and to be happy with who _he himself_ is as a person. Of course, deciding to do all this _while also_ serving a country as its King could be considered... well, insane, and selfish, and careless, _and_ detrimental to said country's stability _and_ good name in the world, but Thorin was determined. Still is. And if there is one thing to be said about the line of Durin, it's that when they decide to do something, there is no swaying them whatsoever.

But apparently, when they are in love and happy, there is also no rousing them from a slightly dizzy haze that comes along with getting lost in some very fresh memories of handsome smiles, and the sweetest of kisses, and the loveliest sensations of hands traveling all over smooth skin...

“Yes? Yes,” he clears his throat, switching on his most attentive of professional faces, and Balin and Deidre exchange a knowing look he pretends he doesn't see.

“You wanted me to notify you when lady Kidzulzân arrived?” Balin reminds him kindly.

“Oh, right, of course. Is she...?”

“Interested to find out where you'd disappeared off to last week? Very much so,” Balin smiles, but still somehow manages to make it look a tad scolding.

“I see, I see,” Thorin sighs, “I'm ready to meet her, bring her in.”

Balin nods and disappears as quickly as he came (Thorin, in fact, doesn't recall when or how he came in, and is a little embarrassed to entertain the idea that he might have been hovering for quite a while before Thorin noticed him, lost in his little... reverie), but Deidre lingers, fetching the empty mug from his table and replacing it with a fresh one, tea this time instead of coffee.

“Thank you,” Thorin mutters absentmindedly, and his one-track mind must have a painfully obvious visage, because she sizes him up and down, a smile of her own in place, vague and slightly disconcerting.

“Hmm. Lunch is served in the Small Drawing Room today,” she informs him, and when he doesn't react aside from an appreciative rumble, she adds more intently, “the table will be set for four, if you wish, Your Majesty.”

He frowns at her at first, clueless as of why that particular piece of information is relevant, but she just stares at him, cocking her eyebrow lightly, and the cogs in Thorin's head click.

“Oh... oh. Yes. That would be excellent. Quite. Very good.”

She snorts a laugh that is reserved solely for teasing him, and he retaliates with a scowl that only lasts a second or two before he simply can't fight the grin _or_ the slight blush anymore, and hangs his head to conceal it at least.

_“_ _Yâkùlib Mahal_ __,_ _ _”_ she mutters under her breath, and he thinks that if he doesn't stop smiling like an idiot right now, he won't be able to go on with his duties for much longer.

Fortunately for them both perhaps, the door flies open then, and Balin announces Thorin's next visitor, and Deidre takes her leave, steering out of his office looking very pleased with herself, for a variety of reasons Thorin wishes he didn't have to pay mind to.

“Miss Kidzulzân _,_ ” he greets the newcomer brightly, but apparently, today is the day formidable women have decided to not give him a second's rest.

“Your Majesty,” she nods to him, folding herself elegantly into the waiting armchair even before he invites her to do so, and simply gazing at him calmly until he gives in.

“I didn't think to inform you before I left last week, and I'm sorry for any inconvenience I might have caused you,” he starts out calmly, but all it takes is a tilt of her head for him to clamp up. There is something stupefyingly impressive about her, in all her ethereal good looks, her golden hair, her propensity for wearing white – all things that should for all intents and purposes make her look pure, almost innocent, but somehow manage to make it very clear that she is not to be trifled with. She reminds Thorin very much of his grandmother, what little he remembers of her, and there's something vaguely terrifying about that thought.

“One hastily canceled meeting is as much an inconvenience for me as it is for you,” she informs him, “I would not go so far as to position myself above _all_ of your numerous responsibilities, Your Majesty. However, I _would_ like to hear all about Bilbo Baggins, before his... exciting comeback becomes more trouble than it is worth.”

He opens his mouth to protest, or defend himself, or Bilbo, but there's nothing to defend _against_ quite yet, despite what some slightly less reasonable part of his mind has to say about it.

“I...” he starts, but she raises her hand almost imperceptibly.

“My job here is to make sure that the fallout of your decision to come out for the public's eye goes as smoothly as humanly possible. That is all. Both you and your media, represented by the... _colorful_ Mister Ibindikhel, have offered your full cooperation. So I ask of you, Your Majesty, _cooperate._ ”

Thorin sighs, his good mood not quite dispelled just yet, but put on hold nevertheless – he's always known it would come to this, but he'd rather hoped it would take some time to get there.

“I know this is... inconvenient,” he says, “Bilbo... Mister Baggins worked as a tutor to my older nephew this past year and we...”

“Yes, I am perfectly aware of his job description, _and_ of the part he played in the whole Bundushar debacle, I watch the news,” she notes coolly.

_And you have Doctor Grey at your disposal, providing information about every little thing, which is more than I could have said at any point in the past year,_ Thorin thinks bitterly, but never says.

“What I don't understand,” she continues somewhat more fondly, “is why I was kept in the dark about your involvement with him.”

_Because I didn't think I'd ever see him again, at one point._

“It was brief,” Thorin says, no matter how much he hates to use that term for what Bilbo and him had had before he left.

“And yet he has returned.”

“Yes.”

“Because you went on to fetch him out of his suburban English home in the middle of the night not two weeks ago.”

“...Yes.”

Much to Thorin's surprise, she smiles, not quite shaking her head in disbelief, but still.

“And I suppose you cannot be convinced to forget about even the possibility of a future with him, and put him on a plane back to England tomorrow.”

“No.”

She inspects him wordlessly for a long moment, the smile never faltering, giving Thorin hope. Not that he needs it – there is nothing and no one parting him from Bilbo from now on, it's as simple as that.

“I see,” she says, “and you are aware that you will have to keep your relationship, whatever the nature of it, a secret for a considerable amount of time.”

“I have considered it, yes.”

“Has he?”

She quirks one meticulously groomed eyebrow at him, and when he fails to answer, she continues softly, almost compassionately: “Has he considered that he will have to spend a long time pretending, that he will not be able to be seen with you in public, or talk about you, or make any claims whatsoever regarding you? He will have to be thoroughly prepared for when he does assume the official role of your partner, and when _that_ happens, he will be subject to a thorough scrutiny from the media, the public, _everyone_ who has been keeping a close eye on you this whole time. It is admirable that you are convinced that that will unfold without hitches, but how well can you vouch for him?”

Thorin takes a breath, a bit shaky perhaps, and doesn't budge an inch, holds her gaze steadily, while his mind is set ablaze with... well, actually _properly_ thinking about what she just said, for the first time. He'd been so excited to go after Bilbo, so exhilarated that he _could,_ that he stopped at nothing and didn't even allow the argument that maybe he _shouldn't_ into the debate.

But no... no. This is it. This is where his happiness lies, and as a source of it, Bilbo will be kept safe from all this mess, if it's the last thing Thorin does. He is brave, and he is just as determined as Thorin himself, but he's been through enough.

“He will be just fine,” he decides firmly.

Miss Galadriel Kidzulzân blinks at him once, twice, that enigmatic smirk still very much in place, and then she sighs and shrugs, as if their fates are decided just like that, in the span of a second.

“Very well then,” she concedes, “I would very much like to meet Mister Baggins now.”

-

 

Oh, Bilbo has forgotten all about rush hour. His first full day back at Erebor was spent wedging himself back into the _Hurmulkezer_ machine, reassuming all his duties, sorting out signatures on _a lot_ of things, convincing Dwalin that no, he really does not wish to get a gun right now, can that wait, or be forgotten entirely, please... But most importantly, he'd spent a lot of that day with the boys, making them bring him up to speed on their progress in school among other things, and promising that yes, of course he will drive them to said school on Monday morning.

There was also the pleasant duty of reacquainting himself with Thrain, who seemed perfectly elated to see him again and showed him the handful of letters they'd exchanged, as if Bilbo hadn't been the one to write them himself.

Thorin was a tad sporadic – evidently one morning away from responsibilities was more than enough, and he only ever joined them at lunch (though that was very nice, sitting next to each other without much regard for protocol, thighs brushing and fingers tangling together on Thorin's knee), but they made the unanimous decision to make it up to each other the second Thorin sat down next to him on Kili's bed while Bilbo read the bedtime story, and his hand somehow found its way under his cardigan and rested a pleasant, hot weight on the small of his back for the entirety of Chapter One of _Good Omens._

It had felt very much like old times, and Thorin laughed when Bilbo told him later that night, and pulled him closer, closer still, and wordlessly, they promised each other over and over again that they would keep the good parts of _the old times,_ but replace others with something much, much better.

But yes, rush hour, not a thing Bilbo has ever been particularly keen on reliving. But he does have his old job back after all, and the idea of anyone else driving the boys to school now that he is here is unthinkable. Besides, he is feeling far too giddy to really care as the car (Bofur had preserved his teeny red Fiat for him, as it turns out, and Bilbo was almost too grateful for words when he found out) navigates through the bustling labyrinth that is downtown Erebor, and the radio blasts this or that peppy tune, and the boys squabble about superheroes on the backseat. The inconspicuously blue cars of Palace security are still with them, one ahead and one following them, both at a good distance, but well, some things can't be helped, can they, Bilbo reckons.

They let out Kili first, Bilbo taking a bit too much time watching him scurry off and join his classmates, before Fili reminds him that the clock is ticking, scoffing at him fondly when Bilbo confesses that he's just glad to see they're doing alright.

“We are _now_ ,” he says meaningfully, and simply glares, as if daring Bilbo to get even more touched.

“Alright, you,” Bilbo sighs, sticking his tongue out at him, which takes him by surprise and makes him snort a laugh, “let's talk birthday plans. Inviting any of your classmates?”

“It's a school night,” Fili sighs.

“Yeah, I know. So?”

“So I wanted to, but they'd have to come for dinner since the rest of the day is full, and that's too late. Besides, it's all official and stuff, no fun.”

“Oh, come on, it'll be lots of fun!”

“You can't even go there,” Fili pouts.

“I can't...? Oh, that's right, I can't,” Bilbo remembers, something about invitations and nobility and important people, “well, I'll be there for the rest of the day, and that'll be lots of fun. The lunch, and the play, all great things. And presents!”

“Uh-huh,” Fili shoots him a lopsided grin, but Bilbo notices far too well the slight discontent lingering in his eyes.

And it wouldn't be him if he already didn't have a plan in play to get rid of it.

But first things first – the second he sends Fili off to his classes, he explains his situation to the security detail, and they agree to wait on him. He slips inside the school and simply soaks up the atmosphere for a blissful minute or two, the bustle and hubbub of children rushing to their classes – he misses it still.

He manages to look entirely unsuspecting as he finds his way towards the Principal's office, and his heart tolls like a bell as he knocks on the door.

“Come in!” a familiar voice invites him, and he does, steps inside almost sheepishly.

Fridda is bent over her desk, scribbling furiously, and she hasn't changed one single bit either, large glasses and permanent bedhead and all.

“Yes, what can I do for you?” she mumbles.

Bilbo would very much like to come up with some smart phrase, but all that he manages to peep is a bit strained: “Hi.”

She frowns and takes a moment to look up, but when she does, it's like she transforms entirely, it's incredible.

“Bilbo! Oh my god, it's really – _what_ are you doing here?! I mean, hi!”

She scrambles to her feet like a stumbling stork and hurries around the desk to hug him hastily, holding him at arm's length the next second and inspecting him as if she's checking him over for injuries or something.

“Hi,” he repeats, ear-splitting grin in place.

“You're back,” she states the obvious again, then, with a sparkle to her eye, “for good?”

“Well,” he clears his throat, scolding himself mentally for blushing like a teenager still, “yes. Yes, I should think so.”

“Oh, he brought you back,” she exhales so happily and dreamily that he bursts into laughter.

“He did, didn't he?” she looks entirely too excited, like she's watching her favorite soap opera unfold, “oh, did he turn up at your doorstep with a bouquet of roses or something?”

“Well, there was no bouquet, I'm afraid,” Bilbo snickers, “but yes, that's about the gist of it.”

“Oh, I can't believe this,” she stares at him as if he really is just a mirage, “this is fantastic. And, you know, welcome back!”

“Thank you,” he giggles.

“So, do you have your job back? How will you two... you know? How _are you?_ ”

He laughs some more – he _has_ been looking forward to surprising her like he'd surprised all the rest of his friends, but never did he envision her being _this_ enthusiastic. It's nice, and oddly reassuring, really.

“I'm brilliant,” he tells her honestly, “really, I am. Do you think you'll find the time to, you know, catch up?”

“Definitely, oh yes!” she nods furiously, fumbling for her planner, just as overflowing as Bilbo's used to be, reminding him that he needs to buy a new one, and getting him unnaturally excited about that simple task.

He does do that, after spending some more time at Fridda's office, catching up in the best possible ways and promising each other to meet again soon, properly – he convinces the security detail to leave him, and goes downtown, something he's been envisioning ever since his plane touched down at Erebor airport.

He wanders the snow-covered streets utterly alone and perfectly happy, and buys himself a generous portion of cinnamon spiced coffee atop a beautiful leather-bound planner thing that he can't wait to fill and ruin with a billion notes over the next year, and has about thirty minutes of simply just sitting down on a bench in the middle of a shopping center, eyes idly following the ebb and flow of the crowds, and wondering how he's gotten so incredibly lucky. Wondering if he's just kidding himself, or failing to see some big fallout coming his way. But no, he doesn't need any more convincing to know that he's in the right place, at long last.

He takes a detour driving home, because he can, because he sees no reason not to, and tries to figure out a way to see Thorin earlier than at dinner – there is a favor that needs asking.

He ends up discussing it with Deidre first, because she'd be the one helping him with it after all, if it turns out to be doable... He feels back in his element instantly – he realizes now how much he despises being idle, having nothing to devote himself to, no task to capture his energy and concentration both. Would he have remembered eventually, had he stayed back in England? Obviously he would have returned to work at some point, maybe even found one that managed to take his mind off the horrendous loneliness... Well, no use thinking like that now, is there. No, here he is, and he can concentrate fully on the best job he's ever going to land – taking care of his Princes, and their happiness, and ensuring their Uncle's happiness (and his own) in the meantime.

“I don't know, Bilbo,” Deidre grumbles, in the middle of ordering at least six different maids to do this or that, “it's a little last minute.”

“Yes, yes, I know, but...”

_But everything happens so fast in Erebor. Three days ago, I was still in London, for crying out loud._ All this energy he is now brimming with, all this determination, he wants to pour into this.

“Just imagine it,” he hastens to explain his plan, “I'm not asking for a lot, just one lunch done a little differently. You know?”

“Well, how many kids are we talking about?” she sighs, in that way that lets him know she _will_ relent if he nags her long enough.

“I... don't know yet, actually. A couple of Fili's classmates, not more than, I don't know? Five? Six? And I was thinking about the Prime Minister's kids, too, you know, it might be nice to have them, don't you think?”

She stops abruptly in her march, and glares at him almost quizzically.

“Can't you leave it until next year?”

“Oh, no no no, please, this is perfect. There's almost a week to do this, it'll be fine!”

“Normally, we'd be planning this for _several_ weeks, you know.”

“Yes, yeah, I know, but come on! Fridda – the Principal at Fili's school has agreed to help me out, contact the parents and everything. All I need is your help. Ple-ease?”

She glowers some more, but then she sighs, a long-suffering sigh of someone entirely too busy but entirely too nice, and concedes: “Fine. Fine, _but!_ No promises. I'll ask Bombur what he thinks about this madness. Come by the staff building in the evening, we'll figure something out.”

“Oh, yes, excellent, thank you so much!” Bilbo all but bobs up and down, but she stops him in his tracks simply by raising her hand.

“ _With that said,_ it is entirely up to you to get this, you know, approved higher up.”

If he didn't know better, he'd think she just waggled her eyebrows at him.

“Shouldn't... shouldn't be a problem,” he falters a bit, and there is a definitive amused sparkle to her eyes.

“I don't think so either. Now shoo, you're costing me precious laundry time.”

 

_Everything happens so fast in Erebor._ Come to think of it, it might be Bilbo's favorite aspect of it, really. Next order of business, sneaking in some Thorin time – and finding out, much to his chagrin, that he's left the building and won't be back until the aforementioned dinner. The need to see him, be with him, is always on the back of Bilbo's mind, pleasant but unwavering, though he knows the circumstances of their newly rekindled relationship are, or ever will be, hardly regular, or convenient for that matter. Despite trying to prove otherwise, Thorin can't just take time off, can't leave his duties lying, can probably afford not one careless morning a week, but more like one careless morning a year, or some such thing.

Bilbo is anxious and curious at the same time to learn everything that being by his side will actually entail, but for now, they aren't either of them quite sure how to make this work, aside from spending every single second of their free time together – there are no rules for this, no regulations or _laws_ Bilbo could read up on, and it's... well, exciting. Yes. So far.

Until, it turns out, he does stop by to catch up with his friends and colleagues at the staff building, and is greeted by Thorin. Well, Thorin's face on the TV, floating in a big circle with a big rainbow-colored question mark accompanying it, and Erebor's best show host, Theo Gabilaz, chattering at a hundred miles per second about what can only be one thing.

“Did His Majesty's big New Year's revelation come prompted by some secret flame, or did he simply decide to rattle our chairs just because he could?” Bofur translates helpfully, and before Bilbo can remark about _rattling their chairs_ and how much he's missed all of Erebor's quirky sayings, the chaffeur continues, “Gabilaz is pretty much taking bets on how long it'll take His Majesty to introduce the partner he's _dead certain_ is behind all this.”

Bilbo fails epically at not choking on his tea, and Bofur simply watches him with a small smile.

“Yeah, I wonder,” Bilbo croaks.

“Bilbo!” Bombur booms, claiming an armchair for himself, “talked to Deidre, that lunch shouldn't be a problem... Oh, right on time! _Mizimel, Gabilazun!_ ”

Bombur's wife comes rushing at his calling, not to miss a second of the show, and Deidre appears as well – Bilbo hopes she might distract him from translating whatever the show host's assumptions about Thorin's private life might be, but to no avail. They all end up watching together and translating bits and bops to Bilbo, obviously deriving a lot of pleasure from it too.

“Pushing boundaries... I'll say!” laughs Bofur.

“ _L_ _ansur'uzzaz_ _–_ what was that?” Bilbo is almost too afraid to ask.

“Uh, partnership,” Bombur translates, “he's wondering whether there will be any significant changes in the legislature now that the King himself is probably keen on marrying...”

“Oh, god,” Bilbo whines, unsure if he should laugh or run away.

“Yeah... Oh, well. There you have it.”

“What – what?”

“Taking bets now on which member of European royalty will be the next to _surprise us so wonderfully,_ ” Deidre supplies helpfully.

“And we should keep an eye on _that one,_ since our King will be announcing his engagement to him shortly after...”

“If they only knew,” Deidre laughs, and they all join her, looking far too self-assured for Bilbo's liking.

“Knew?” he asks a bit dumbly, “I'm sorry, do we all know something?”

“Some of us more than others, eh,” Bombur sniggers, and Bofur punches his arm.

“I know it all _up to a point,_ ” Deidre says calmly, “can't tell you how many times I told His Majesty to go after you, before he finally took the hint, but _no_ , when it comes to telling me how it went, he's a closed book.”

Bilbo freezes, but everyone is simply nodding and smiling to themselves or _directly at him,_ and...

“I'm sorry, does _everyone_ know about me and... Why I really came back, that is?” he blurts out, blushing into his mug, because if they didn't know before, they certainly do _now._

“Well,” Deidre clears her throat.

“Pretty much,” says Bofur, reclining in his armchair.

“Yes and no,” Bombur supplies helpfully.

“Explain,” demands Bilbo.

“It's like a... it's a very closely guarded public secret,” Bofur struggles to find the proper words, and fails horrifically, at least in Bilbo's eyes.

“When you say public...”

“I mean... oh no, don't worry! Very few people actually... _know_ , that is. Balin saw it fit to inform some of us, at one point or another, and of course we were told to keep it under wraps, none of us would ever dream of...”

His voice gradually fades into nothing under the intensity of Bilbo's glare, but that doesn't last long either, before Bilbo is sighing raggedly.

“Wonderful,” he peeps.

“Obviously we didn't think... Well, after you left, it wasn't something to bring up, ever again, but now that you're back, I mean, obviously there are going to be some...”

“What?” Bilbo gasps, “I beg of you to finish that sentence.”

“Adjustments?” Bofur tries.

“Adjustments,” Bilbo repeats dryly.

“You know... stuff. I think. I don't know how these things are done, but I'm thinking you two will have to... eventually... Alright, I'm shutting up now, sorry!” Bofur exclaims, reaching over to pat Bilbo's shoulder.

“I'm just,” Bilbo exhales, but finds he's incapable of forming words, and has to try again, “I don't even know myself. I haven't been... It's not like I've been _briefed_ on how this is supposed to go, or anything. You know?”

“It'll be fine,” Bofur tells him compassionately.

“The important thing is you're together now, yes?” Deidre adds, and Bilbo ends up snorting a laugh into his tea.

“Yes, Deidre, thank you. Our worries are truly over now.”

 

It just hasn't sunk in yet – Bilbo would like to know how long it will take. He firmly tells himself not to worry, and manages very well. Up until that night, anyway.

“I need a favor,” he tells Thorin, walking very effortlessly hand in hand from the boys' quarters to their own, and Thorin replies: “Oh? Me too, actually.”

“Oh – really? What is it?”

“You first.”

“No, no, you go,” Bilbo counters, “I'm very curious to find out what _I_ can do for _you_ , just this once.”

For a wordless moment, Thorin simply stares at him, half curious half... well, lovelorn, for the lack of a better term, but then he shakes his head as if to jolt himself out of his reverie, and squeezes Bilbo's hand, half unconsciously.

“It's not as much of a favor as it is a, um... I need you to meet with someone.”

“Oh?”

“There's a... media specialist who has been helping me ever since New Year's. I hate to do this so quick, but she needs to meet with the both of us, to create some sort of... to make sure that we...”

“Oh,” Bilbo smiles, “I see. Should be interesting.”

“I don't think that... I'm so sorry it's all going so fast. I never meant to drag you into anything that would...-”

“Thorin,” Bilbo stops him, gently but firmly – he looks far too worried for his liking, really.

“You haven't _dragged me_ into anything,” he continues softly, “I'm here because I want to be, remember?”

“Hmm.”

He looks unconvinced.

“Let's meet this specialist of yours. I'm guessing she will attempt to scare me off?”

“That's what she tends to do, yes.”

“Alright, then. Consider me warned, _and_ ready to take on her, okay?”

Thorin gazes at him now as if he can't quite believe his words just yet, but seems to really want to. Bilbo takes a quick look around, decides to disregard the bodyguards hanging behind them at a polite distance, and steps closer to bounce on his tiptoes and press a soft kiss to Thorin's lips.

“It'll be alright,” he murmurs, “we'll be alright.”

Thorin produces some very attractive low sound that could be both an agreement or simply just an appreciation, and makes to wrap his arm around Bilbo's waist, an effort he quickly quells before it progresses much further.

“Come on,” he tugs at his hand, and Thorin follows him very obediently.

“You had a favor to ask me as well?” he reminds Bilbo, his voice the slightest bit huskier than usual.

“Oh, that's right. What's the policy on surprise birthday parties?”

-

 

The meeting is set for two days from then, on the eve of Fili's _regular_ birthday party, and Thorin continues to be much more agitated about it than Bilbo, it seems. Even when faced with Bard, who apparently _needs to be there,_ Bilbo maintains a calm outlook – whether it's because he doesn't know what's coming, or because it doesn't affect him, Thorin doesn't know.

“I'll be sure to let you know the second I feel like talking about any of it to the media,” Bilbo fends off Bard elegantly when asked about the more _intimate_ circumstances of his return, and Thorin himself entertains a number of creatively evil ideas regarding the journalist's future, but that's when Miss Kidzulzân arrives, and the topic quickly becomes _his own_ future, as well as Bilbo's.

“Mister Baggins – Galadriel Kidzulzân _,_ ” she introduces herself, “a pleasure.”

“The pleasure is all mine,” he says evenly, and Thorin wonders how he can face her off so casually – she makes _him_ inherently nervous still, like he's just a child who's been stealing from the kitchens and is in for a scolding (not that he'd ever let anyone know about this colorful analogy).

“I understand you're planning on dating a King,” Galadriel quips lightly, and, defying Thorin's expectations yet again, Bilbo grins, at her and then at him, somewhat sheepishly but brightly nevertheless.

“That's the idea so far, I suppose, yes.”

“You do, of course, realize that that's impossible.”

Bilbo's cheerful facade falters for the most fleeting moment, but it jabs at Thorin's heart nevertheless. He shakes his head imperceptibly when Bilbo glances at him, _please don't worry, there's nothing that could ever part me from you,_ and can only hopes Bilbo gets the message.

“What Miss Kidzulzânis trying to say,” Bard chimes in, “is that there are certain... regulations.”

“I understand that.”

“But the point is,” Bard leans forward, clearly enjoying all of this a lot, “it's up to us – up to _you_ – to decide which ones to stick to, you see? You're the first of your kind, so to speak. Hell, there isn't even a name for what you are – potentially would be, were you to be the King's official partner.”

“That is the least of our worries,” Galadriel says sternly, shooting Thorin a look that seems to be, if anything, vaguely disapproving, then focusing on Bilbo again, “if you do ever wish to be that, you will have to master the Khuzdul language, and you will have to master court etiquette, and numerous other aspects of a noble's life – and since you are nowhere near noble by birth, you will always, _always_ be at a disadvantage. _Everyone_ will doubt you, and attempt to discredit you, and that will all be _before_ you even open your mouth.”

“When you do, you will be _quizzed_ by every single newspaper, every single TV show host, about any topic you can imagine. Politics, human rights, ecology, your favorite meals, what you think about that one person who said that one thing last week. You will have to be on top of things _every single moment of your life,_ and not only that – you will become something more than that one guy who started dating a king. You will be an icon, and an image on the front of countless tabloids to a lot of people. You will be the butt of a hundred jokes, and the title of a billion articles. Is that something you can do?”

Thorin wants to do something, jump to Bilbo's defense, reach out for him, ask everyone to leave, but something in Bilbo's gaze stops him dead. He just sits there perfectly calmly, hands clasped in his lap, measuring Galadriel with an intensity more than equal to his own, and he appears almost displeased with the notion of any of her words making him worried – as if he would be extremely indignant were anyone to expect him to be rattled by them in the least. He's extraordinary.

“It's not too late to back out,” Bard adds, and sounds uncharacteristically solemn, and something tiny and incredibly anxious clenches in Thorin's chest when Bilbo looks from Miss Kidzulzân to the journalist, slowly, oddly cool and calculating. Even Bard looks a tad taken aback. But then Bilbo chuckles, and hangs his head a bit, his features lit up by his smile, and the spell is broken.

“That is not an option, I'm afraid,” he says very simply, and looks at Thorin next, almost as if he's teasing and daring him, _that's right, I'm being absolutely perfect, what are you going to do about it? –_ and Thorin has _some_ ideas, but all of them involve a lot less people in the room.

“While that's admirable,” Galadriel sighs, “I want to make sure that you really understand everything that you'd be signing up for, Mister Baggins. This decision, once you make it, will be for life, and will not only affect _your_ life, but the lives of everyone around you.”

Bilbo looks from her to Thorin again, and holds his gaze this time, and Thorin wonders if he's thinking the same things – _it's only been a couple of days. We're certain enough now that we both want this, but will that_ be _enough?_

“How long?” Bilbo asks simply, “how long until... this becomes official? Absolutely _has to_ become official, or whatever?”

“As long as it takes,” Galadriel replies, “I would ask you to keep it private for the time being, and you will have to _keep on_ keeping it private for a while longer, even with a strategy devised. That means not being seen together outside the Palace, and not advertising your relationship overmuch even while inside it. The less people know, the less people will potentially spread the information.”

“As... meticulously timed as your coming out was, Your Majesty,” Bard adds, “I think we can all agree that the general public needs at least some period of peace, however relative.”

“Absolutely,” Miss Kidzulzân nods, “no more shocking revelations just yet – we are all still reeling from the last one.”

“How long?” Thorin repeats Bilbo's question much more sternly.

“Rough estimate?” Galadriel quirks an eyebrow, “a year.”

 

_Find an outlet for your anger,_ Thorin used to hear from his therapist, back when he thought seeing one was actually productive. Said therapist would probably scoff at him now, seeing as he tends to transform his anger into working doubly hard and locking up all his anxieties inside, but alas, it's all he knows – has known, for the longest time.

_A year._ It's such a short period of time, in the grand scope of things. Bilbo is here, what more can he wish for, really. _Taking him out to dinner whenever you wish. Holding his hand whenever you wish. Pointing at him with the entire world looking, and saying yes, this man has chosen to be with me, look how absolutely marvelous he is._

He doesn't know if Bilbo feels the same way, because he doesn't ask him. After the increasingly more difficult meeting concludes, they agree to talk later that day, and Thorin is whisked off for more duties, but he can't get the image of Bilbo's perfectly unreadable face out of his mind – was he worried as well? Was he already planning on announcing that this is too much for him, that this isn't what he's signed on for?

After hours upon hours of thinking very little about his work and very much about his Bilbo, Thorin has managed to work himself up into a thoroughly useless state of a lingering unease and some sort of guilt gnawing at his nerves, which is probably why it takes him about five minutes to crumble when Bilbo and him do finally get together in private that night.

“Do you think I should tell Deidre to stop waggling her eyebrows at us whenever we're in the same room together?” Bilbo jokes after the maid stops by on some late-night errand, and Thorin wants to reply with something light, he really does, but his throat closes up at the sight of him, an armful of his clothes on their way to the newly assigned wardrobe of his, just standing there all casual and quietly handsome, as if the room has been built around him to accommodate his presence.

Evidently, Thorin must look a tad odd to say the least, because Bilbo inclines his head inquisitively, a frown rippling his forehead.

“Thorin? You alright?”

“ _Intihifizu, birashagimi,_ ” he pleads with him hoarsely, incapable of moving past the restraints of his native language, but Bilbo understands and steps closer.

“There's nothing _to_ forgive – what are you talking about?”

“I'm sorry,” Thorin exhales raggedly, clenching his jaw and looking away, “I never meant for this... I didn't consider the position I'd be putting you in. I never thought... I just wanted to see you again, and go and get you, and I didn't stop for one second to think about what would follow, in terms of us actually being together, and...”

“Hey,” Bilbo sighs quietly, setting his clothes down on the floor quite unceremoniously and patting over to Thorin, “hey, neither did I. Not for a single moment, actually.”

“Hmm,” Thorin rumbles unhappily, Bilbo's arms on his shoulders a small comfort.

“I guess they just don't prepare you for this, you know,” Bilbo chuckles.

“If you – if you want to go back to-”

“What I _want?_ ” Bilbo huffs, and looks at Thorin as if he's seeing him for the first time, but then a smile dances on his lips, some sort of realization lighting up his features, “you know, I never actually told you what I want, did I?”

His hands travel up Thorin's neck and he's suddenly so close, his even breaths soothing Thorin's cheeks, his eyes gleaming, his expression humorless. Thorin feels his heart skip a beat, and another one, and holds him almost too cautiously, shaking his head tentatively.

“Well, it's rather simple actually,” Bilbo murmurs, his thumbs soothing the sensitive spots behind Thorin's ears, “I want you. I will still want you a year from now, and fifty years from now. I would want you if you were a, a grocery store clerk. I will always want you, no matter how long we have to wait. I will take my Khuzdul lessons, and my etiquette lessons, and I will defend my decision to be with you, and vice versa, in any way I can, to anyone who will listen. Because you're absolutely worth it all, believe it or not.”

Thorin wants, _needs,_ to tell him that he's spent his entire life losing things, over and over again. That he is afraid, always, of stopping, of letting _anything_ last, of carving out a bit of happiness for himself. That he dreams of all the things that have ever gone wrong in his life, and dreams of the things that _might_ go wrong, wakes up late into the night sometimes worried sick about the safety of his boys, or his father, or the members of his family who can no longer be kept safe... Has woken up late into the night before after seeing Bilbo himself in his nightmare, pale as a sheet, lying terrifyingly still in a hostile hospital bed.

That he loses, by default, always loses. And if letting Bilbo go, reconsidering this whole thing and sending him off on his merry way, would be ensuring his safety, would mean Thorin wouldn't ever have to watch him fade away from him, then he'd be willing to do that in a heartbeat.

That the ideas of keeping him and letting him go are equally terrifying.

But he says none of those things, because ultimately, the feeling he'd experienced that night, coming up to Bilbo's door and raising his hand to ring the bell, is still with him, to an extent – he didn't care about _consequences_ then, or all the _sensible_ decisions he would have to start making after going through with that one. No, he simply _wanted,_ with his very being, was pulled to Bilbo by some invisible power, like he'd always been orbiting him all that time, and was now destined to crash in the best possible way.

And so he kisses him instead of unnecessary words, pulls him close and kisses all breath out of him, perfectly ready to stay like this for good.

“Good,” he sighs breathlessly against his lips, “good.”

And who knows, maybe winning for once really is that simple.

 

And if he didn't believe it before, if he had any doubts, if he was worried about Bilbo still, considering him _fragile_ , or second-guessing his courage and determination, he's proven wrong on every single level later that week, at the absolute oddest of moments, really.

They spend Fili's birthday together, the four of them, as long as they can – the boys have a day off from school, which is incredibly exciting in and of itself of course, but that's only where the day's spectacles begin. The lunch is had, at Thorin's (and Bilbo's, how quickly he's gotten used to using that term) apartment, a pleasantly subdued affair consisting of the rather lively conversation of Fili with his Grandfather about the widest range of topics possible, which is beneficial for everyone, from Kili who gets to steal pieces of meat from his preoccupied brother's plate, to Thorin and Bilbo, who spend less time eating and more time holding hands ( _on_ the table now, a luxury reserved for this place only, they agree wordlessly at some point) and watching the family be at peace, twin perhaps rather soppy smiles on their faces.

Fili receives his presents after, and they all go to town then to watch Kili's short school play, only to be whisked off back to the Palace for the humbug around the official dinner, having to leave Bilbo behind at one point, and it's all in all a very nice day, but Fili does confess to Thorin, after finishing his round of dutifully greeting and thanking everyone at the dinner, that he wishes he could have invited his friends, and all in all have had a much less uptight party of it, and Thorin merely smiles in what he hopes is not too enigmatic a way, and tells him ' _Maybe next year, what do you say_ ', which seems to appease him enough so that he forgets all about it until that Saturday.

And then it's time for the fated lunch, and for Fili to find out that quite a large number of his classmates _were_ in fact available on such short notice – the drawing room in which the boys and Bilbo and him have shared their meals so often over time is suddenly overflowing with eager and curious children, their laughter and chatter, and when Thorin steps in to simply pay his regards and disappear again lest he embarrasses his nephews, the wall of sound quite literally slaps him across the face, but it's rather... nice. Reminds him, in fact, of when he himself had been little, and lunches always meant a large family gathering.

“Don't stare too much,” Deidre jabs at him lightheartedly and discreetly, and he clears his throat and frowns at her, but does try to keep his leering in check.

“ _Indâd!_ ” Kili notices him then, and beckons him over, and the crowd of children does quieten down a tad, and Thorin steps to the table a tad unsteadily, but Fili and Kili are beaming up at him, as is... as is Bilbo.

“I hope everyone is having fun,” Thorin declares, trying not to grin too much, feeling Bilbo's gaze on him, “I'm glad you could all make it to surprise my nephew.”

“Most of their mothers are still rather suspicious,” Bilbo supplies, amused, “I think they're half expecting never to see their children again.”

“Fine by me!” one of the boys calls out, then proceeds to clamp his hands over his mouth at such an obvious offense, the others trying to laugh at his misfortune as inconspicuously as possible.

“We're returning you all to your families safe and sound, I promise,” Thorin laughs, “but do enjoy yourselves while you're here, please.”

“Alright then!” Bilbo takes over firmly, “everyone finished? Time to bring out the cake!”

Thorin backs away, but doesn't leave quite yet – can't. His eyes follow Bilbo around the room, follow him as he coordinates a herd of children with a near uncanny ease, as he claps excitedly along with everyone when the cake is brought out, as he helps Fili get a good angle for cutting it, and distributes plates to everyone... As he sits down with Kili in his lap, warning him about the potential mess they're about to cause, and finally looks up, catching Thorin's gaze, smiling utterly radiantly...

It is surreal. Everything about this is – he's been here for a couple of days and yet he's already managed to achieve the impossible, be it Fili's very _very_ impromptu birthday party that took him _days_ to plan where others would have simply given up and decided to postpone it, or... well, everything else. Waking up next to Thorin every morning. Not disappearing into thin air. Making him _believe_ in... victories. And the possibilities ahead of them.

Thorin has to remind himself – is reminded of it right there and then, Bilbo warring with Kili over a single piece of cake – that sometimes, he fails to give him enough credit. That out of the two of them, Bilbo is, always has been and always will be, the braver one. That he really did mean it when he said he would wait a year, or fifty of them.

That Thorin himself would wait lifetimes.

But that the wait is over now.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nyoom, here we go! You guys wanted the rating upped, so I upped it. This story has never revolved around smut, nor will it ever do so, so I'll trickle these intimate bits... well, bit by bit, I hope that's alright with everyone. Galadriel was a fun choice for a PR specialist, we'll see where her character takes us (her surname means 'golden hair' so yeah). Next up, the Gala!


	3. Chapter 3

The lights are unnaturally bright overhead, and if he keeps staring at them for much longer, he's bound to get very dizzy, very fast. _You are trying to run here, looking ahead might be a good idea._ Wait, what is he running from, again? Or towards?

“Bilbo!” a frighteningly familiar voice echoes up ahead, and his heart beats frantically as he speeds up.

_The boys,_ he thinks, but his voice is failing him. Come to think of it, his feet are failing him, too, refusing to carry him at any sort of acceptable speed. _The carpet_ is failing him, because it's the wrong color – red for second floor, blue for third, this is not the third, he needs to get up there, get to the boys' rooms before it's too late, before...

The gunshot resounds and he thinks he hears glass shattering, but maybe that's just him, splitting into countless fragile little shards as he hits the ground.

 

He wakes up with a great gasp for air like a man drowning, clutching on the covers hard before he recognizes his surroundings, the familiar angles of the bedroom, and his heartbeat stills somewhat from the hectic staccato making his chest physically ache.

“Bilbo? _Ghelekhizu?_ ”

“I'm fine,” he exhales shakily, fumbling to put his hand on Thorin's back, the warmth of him enough to reassure him.

But he shifts under his touch and sits up, never severing their connection, his hand now on Bilbo's shoulder.

“Bad dream,” Bilbo explains almost apologetically, and the lines of Thorin's face are worried in the dim bluish glow, the morning approaching ever so slowly.

“It's alright,” Bilbo murmurs, “I'm alright. I'll just go get a glass of water.”

“Alright,” Thorin sighs, sliding from under the covers, and Bilbo hurries to add: “No no, stay here, go back to sleep. It's fine, really.”

But Thorin merely groans as he stretches his arms and back, and offers his hand to Bilbo without hesitation.

“Come on.”

He accepts it, and feels a bit like a child, hand in hand, their bare feet patting on their way to the kitchen. Everything is way too quiet, and Bilbo is uneasy still, but he doesn't have to say anything out loud for Thorin to understand – he knows not to mollycoddle him too much, and thus lets him pour his own glass of water, thank god, but hovers close by, ready to secure Bilbo with an arm around his waist the second the opportunity arises.

“Sorry,” Bilbo exhales, wiping his lips and pressing his forehead against Thorin's chest.

“Hush,” Thorin plants a kiss into his hair, his hands soothing Bilbo's back in sweeping, calming moves, and Bilbo allows himself to go a little bit weak in the knees, holding onto him like a lifeline, doing his damnedest to concentrate only on the present, his touch and the warmth of him, miles and worlds away from the echoes of endless hallways.

They walk back to their bedroom slowly, holding tight onto each other, and Bilbo can't help but think how ridiculous it is that even in this, they are so similar. He is not the only victim of sleeplessness out of the two of them, but the difference between Thorin and him is, he's not quite used to night terrors just yet. Is it even a thing one is _supposed to_ get used to?

Wordlessly, they hide back under the covers, Thorin cradling Bilbo close to him, so close that Bilbo knows nothing but the steady beat of his heart and the rise and fall of his chest, and maybe their positions will be reversed tomorrow, or a week from now, but all that matters is that it works.

“You're alright now,” Thorin murmurs, “you're safe.”

His hand finds the tender skin of Bilbo's scar, covering it gently, and he tenses at that for a moment, but Thorin's thumb rubbing soothing circles into the small of his back works wonders.

“You're safe,” Thorin repeats to him, time and time again, until it becomes a lullaby, until Bilbo believes it, if only for one night, “you're safe.”

 

The problem isn't that he doubts, or even fears something real – it's just that, and he will probably keep repeating this until the day he dies, everything happens so fast in Erebor. Everything happened so fast _to_ him before he left, the whole mess leading up to him getting shot, and even after that, he had... he had no time _or_ energy to really deal with it all. He thought he needed to heal away from Erebor, which proved to only worsen his state, and now that he's where he finally belongs, everything should be back to normal, theoretically speaking. And it is, he's the happiest he's ever been, he gets to be with the boys and Thorin, and making the decision that this is how it will always be has actually managed to ground him even more, but it's that he's _so_ busy he barely has the time to just... well, stop. And relax, and accept that what happened to him, really happened. Some part of him would like to pretend it never did, draw a strong line behind that past and only look ahead, but _something_ had to catch up to him eventually, he supposes.

“I'm fine,” he repeats to Thorin that afternoon when they snatch a precious few moments together, alone in the Princes' quarters, under the pretense of waiting for them to discuss the upcoming week – he knows that it's true, but that doesn't change the fact that Thorin won't drop it until he believes it.

“It's just... the rush,” Bilbo tells him honestly, “I feel like I haven't just sat down and stopped ever since I got back here.”

“I know, I should have-”

“And under no circumstances is that _your fault,_ ” Bilbo interjects kindly, but firmly, smiling when Thorin remains unconvinced.

“We could work something out, shuffle your shifts...”

“That's not the point, you know it isn't,” Bilbo murmurs, busying himself with aimlessly tracing the hem of Thorin's tie, “I don't mind a single minute I spend working. It's just that... I could use a break. We could _all_ use a break.”

“You know, I've been having some ideas,” Thorin offers.

“Ooh, ideas?”

“Yes, ideas. Imagine this,” Thorin says softly, bringing Bilbo closer to accentuate his suggestive skills, already impossibly high, “packing up and just leaving, for a couple of days. We could go to the mountains, just hole up there and... well, I imagine mostly sleep in. A lot. You'd bake, I'd let the country run itself. What do you think?”

“I think that if you do make that happen, there's a real possibility we're never coming back, because I'll just refuse to leave. We'll have to stay there forever, and we'll get _very_ fat, very fast.”

“I can live with that,” Thorin laughs.

Bilbo grins into the kiss, but still regards him curiously when they part.

“You could really swing that?”

“I think so. I'll pull some strings. Put a few... dozen important decisions on hold. Balin has been signing things in my stead for years anyway. Shouldn't be a problem.”

And really, this is enough – laughing together, and being close, if only for a couple of short moments every day, and, yes, being startled out of a kiss by the boys barreling inside, their timing as impeccable as ever.

They listen to Fili's account of the progress in the ongoing and very serious issue of his new annoying classmate, and Bilbo watches Kili demanding until his Uncle relents, letting him climb into his arms because he simply _must_ fish out his phone out of his breast pocket and make an incredibly important call to Deidre, to let her know that her maids had failed to deliver his usual hot chocolate to his piano lesson and that he's _very_ disappointed, and he thinks, _it's enough. This is all you will ever need anymore. No dwelling in the past, simply enjoying the present. Do you think you can do that?_

“So what would you two say to very secretly sneaking out of the Palace one night and spending a couple of days on a holiday with Bilbo and me?” Thorin announces.

“No school?” Fili has his priorities set straight, “when? Because there's this test next week that I'd really like to avoid... I mean, yeah! Awesome! Whenever,” he backtracks very smoothly, switching on his best innocent face to fend off both Thorin's and Bilbo's mildly warning looks.

“What do you think, _a_ _khûnith_?” Thorin ruffles Kili's hair, and the boy continues to stare at the screen of his Uncle's phone, adorably pensive.

“Hmm,” he rubs his chin thoughtfully, in a gesture so obviously gleaned from Thorin that Bilbo can't help but snicker, “I'll have to make some calls.”

“Oh, you're going to have to make calls, are you?” Thorin quirks an eyebrow, highly amused, and Kili nods sagely, bringing the phone to his ear and announcing to an imaginary Balin perhaps that all his extracurricular activities are going to have to be canceled, starting tomorrow...

“We'll just have to see about that,” Thorin huffs, trying to snatch the phone away from him, and the little Prince twists and squeals in his arms until they're both laughing, and Bilbo's grin is threatening to actually hurt his cheeks.

“Seriously though, are we going?” Fili asks, standing by his side and watching the whole thing, with, oh definitely a healthy amount of disdain for a fourteen-year-old, but also a fondness that warms Bilbo's heart.

“Your Uncle thinks he can make it happen,” Bilbo shrugs, then nudges Fili with his elbow, “ _not_ by next week, though.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Fili smirks, “with the Gala and all.”

“Oh yes,” Bilbo sighs heavily, “we're all going to have to survive the Gala first.”

 

Time has been flying so incredibly fast – he's not sure he remembers anything from February. It still feels like yesterday that he first came back, and everything remains a novelty to him, exhilarating and bordering on too good to be true, be it the enjoyment he finds in taking care of the boys again, or waking up next to Thorin nearly every morning. Even though they've been spending every possible second of their free time together, it's not enough by a long shot, and Bilbo wonders if maybe that's a part of the charm – they remain rare and precious to each other.

Well, if anything, the Gala will certainly be a test of that – Bilbo is officially there as the Princes' caretaker, of course, nothing more. Miss Galadriel has had him repeat that sentence at least a billion times in the past couple of days, preparing both of them for the occasion, and the amount of restraint it will require. Bilbo finds it a bit ridiculous – honestly, who does she take them for, a couple of teenagers incapable of keeping their hands off each other? They will both be very busy in their respective ways anyway, and really, at this point people would probably have an easier time believing the apparition of Durin the Deathless right in the middle of the ballroom (Bilbo has been doing his history reading), than the fact that the King has been sleeping in the same bed as his nephews' guardian for a considerable amount of time now.

...But then again, Bilbo has gone and forgotten how utterly, superbly _delicious_ Thorin looks in his best uniform.

It's like staring into the sun, if the sun wore a striking royal blue and gold with a contrasting red silk sash, and had the scorching good looks that make Bilbo's heart beat inconveniently faster.

“Our cue,” Fili hisses at him, and Bilbo regains at least some awareness and lets the Princes go and join the King on the balcony overlooking the vast ballroom, while he himself backs away among the staff lining the staircase.

Balin's raised eyebrow is enough to ground him and make him summon at least some shame.

“I wasn't staring _that much_.”

“Uh-huh. You are in fact still doing it.”

“Well, _everybody's_ looking right now!”

“Hush.”

The music swells and comes to a natural, beautiful halt, and applause rises right alongside Bilbo's heart rate – there really is nothing quite like standing in the middle of something like this. Well, almost in the middle. _Come to think of it, you might end up_ precisely _in the middle, one of these days. That's right, on that little balcony by Thorin's side. Terrifying? We'll look into that later._

Right now, it's time to listen to Thorin's speech, Bilbo's brain working at the speed of light translating everything, and, well, all in all he's very glad the only light in the vast hall is focused on Thorin right now, because if his face shows half of what he's feeling right now, he's screwed.

He doesn't catch it all, but there's, of course, talk of bravery, and new horizons, and moving forward – Bilbo can already see the titles of the newspaper articles. The ones that he's read so far have all used all of that, those vaguely hopeful generic terms, but somehow Thorin sells them so much better, with so much more conviction. _This is personal,_ he says at one point, and Bilbo's heart skips a beat, because he could swear he inclines his head in his direction a little bit.

“It's personal, and since the King's personal life... revolves around his country and its people, he thought it would be a good idea to inform them of the changes,” Balin translates under his breath.

“Yes, I understood,” Bilbo peeps, his laughter alongside everyone else's a bit on the hoarse side.

Balin pats his arm very discreetly, and Bilbo sniffs and straightens up as the lights turn back on, both Princes turning to him and beaming brightly, already quite determined to drag him god knows where, and he only manages to catch Thorin's gaze for a fraction of a second before they do in fact succeed.

“Oh, god, I've forgotten everything,” Bilbo mutters miserably as they march resolutely away from the dancing floor, about to start greeting people off the Princes' vast list of Nobles To Appease, “how do I address a Duke again?”

He's been taking extensive etiquette classes, and he feels like it's stuff he _used to know,_ dammit. Indeed just last night Thorin quizzed him on it, but that exercise might have been much more effective had they not been lounging in bed together, Thorin's thumb stroking his belly, only half-absentmindedly, Bilbo suspects. Alright, _concentrate._

“Relax. Hang back, I'll talk to everyone first, and if you ever have to, just go with 'Your Ladyship' or 'Lordship' for everyone, that always works,” Fili reassures him, “oh, except for Aunt Elsa, she wants to be called 'Duchess' all the time. Oh, look, there's Uncle Dain. Don't use titles with _him,_ he hates it, remember?”

“Yes, I vaguely recall his disdain for anything reminding him of being royalty,” Bilbo utters under his breath, but then the Prime Minister and his family notice them, and it's time to put on a polite smile and play 'just here for the Princes, certainly not dating the King, where did you get _that_ idea' in the background.

“Auntie Barb!” Kili exclaims, but Fili tut-tuts at him, and he regains his very serious composure, and side by side, they formally greet the Khirikhbuzuns, who respond incredibly warmly, Dain's wife kissing both boys on the cheeks _at least_ three times, while her husband is better at making them feel all adult and respected, shaking their hands. As for their children, they are very excited to take off with the Princes right this second, but that's where Bilbo has to interject, reminding the Princes gently that their duties are still very much ongoing.

“Professor Baggins!” Dain seems to be glad to see him as well, shaking his hand mightily, “we thought you'd left!”

“Your Lord– hello, sir,” Bilbo stammers, “yes, I did leave for a short time, to recover back in England.”

There, not so hard. Not after Miss Galadriel the PR adviser having him reply to a hundred test questions every day just to get it right, anyway.

“Oh, of course, you got shot, you poor thing!” Barbra exclaims, “we thought it was very brave, the way you got involved in all that mess, didn't we dear?”

Both Dain and Bilbo glance warily in the direction of the children, but they seem preoccupied with sharing this exciting story or that right now.

“Yes, well, don't let the journalists hear me, but I personally found it all so confusing so often,” the Prime Minister supplies almost conspiratorially.

“Oh, you're not alone in that, sir,” Bilbo chuckles wryly.

“Still, all that matters is that the bad ones are behind bars now, eh. It was excellent seeing you, Professor, but I'm afraid we must be moving on now. _Â_ _zyungel,_ the Hurins.”

“Ah, yes,” Barbra perks up, “stay safe, Professor. Children, come! We'll make sure to send them your way when the Princes are finished.”

“That would be great, thank you,” Bilbo nods, waving them off as they all disappear into the crowd, ever-amassing, then herds the Princes, “let's go, boys. Duty calls.”

It's all just as ridiculous as Bilbo remembers it – people all but lining up to shake the boys' hands, Fili holding conversation after conversation with an impressive ease, Kili taking over and charming everyone when it's most needed... For his part, Bilbo is just glad he does in fact get to _hang back_ for the most part, observing and only ever interrupting to gently save the Princes from the snares of yet another boring noble who would gladly spend an hour chatting and trying to catch Fili unprepared, topic after vague topic, only to always collide with the Prince's quick wit. As much as Bilbo enjoys witnessing _that,_ there's a schedule to stick to.

“Look, _Indâd_ is dancing!” Kili tugs at his sleeve as they move to the other side of the ballroom for about the fifth time on their quest to find more important people, and Bilbo looks, and wishes he didn't.

He's never considered himself a particularly jealous person, but it's... it's not that. Not really. He thinks. Thorin is unmissable, taller than everyone else and somehow _grander,_ and the current lucky lady is the Duchess of... oh, he should have studied the folders with everyone's faces better. Doesn't really matter, because he wants to forget her immediately, _and_ the way she laughs a bit too heartily, her eyes a bit too bright, as the King and her sway and spin to the rhythm of the waltz.

It's... knowing that Bilbo can't be there in her stead – something that he'd been conditioned to come to terms with, _has_ come to terms with, and yet it hurts. Galadriel told him it would, and he believed her, he knew this was coming, he just... He hopes lady Whateverhernameis realizes how lucky she is.

“Hermina, Countess Urs-Tarag,” Fili supplies helpfully, as if he's been reading his mind, and Bilbo clears his throat shamefully, but can't quite bring himself to look away.

She is slender and really quite beautiful, her hair a bright sunshiny gold very much like Fili's...

“Oh, hold on, Urs-Tarag?” Bilbo's memory is jolted, “isn't that...?”

“Our _Adad_ 's family, yeah,” Fili mutters, a worried line creasing his forehead as he scans the crowd, “means that our grandparents are here.”

As if they won't have enough to worry about as it is – Bilbo squeezes Kili's hand harder and tries to find the grandparents in question as well, though he barely remembers what they look like. His gaze keeps coming back to Thorin, though, recognizing his smile merely as a polite one – he too realizes what this means.

The mellow piece ends, and Thorin releases the Countess with barely more than a customary kiss on the hand and a thank you before his eyes are searching as well, and Bilbo is almost tempted to wave at him – he notices them nevertheless, and heads close immediately, his face a bit tense, but before he can get very far, he's stopped in his tracks by yet another eager dancer, and is forced to return to the dancing floor, shooting one last look in Bilbo's direction.

“Problem?”

That's Balin, appearing by Bilbo's side completely out of the blue, one of his most coveted skills.

“The Urs-Tarags are here,” Bilbo utters.

“I know,” Balin sighs, “I already had the pleasure of running into them.”

“I don't want to go talk to them,” Fili states resolutely.

“Understandable, but unfortunately inevitable, Your Highness,” Balin says almost apologetically, “we can, however, wait until after your Uncle is done dancing, and deal with them... swiftly and all in one go, so to speak.”

Fili snickers at that, and they delve into the crowd again, Balin accompanying them this time, just so there is an extra pair of eyes to look for the unwelcome guests for a while.

“We thought they weren't coming,” Bilbo hisses, and the Chief of Staff sighs again, heavily.

“I know, so did I. I suppose they had to kick their habit of checking yes and never actually attending eventually. I expect they'll have a lot to say about the... recent developments in His Majesty's personal life, best be prepared.”

Bilbo groans, but remains mostly worried – this particular story has only been told to him very recently, though he doesn't understand how he could have gone so long without knowing. But then again, he _can_ understand that the Princes' father's family claiming that Thorin isn't fit to raise them and attempting to separate them early on after the deaths of the Princess and her husband, is not something one would want to advertise. He can still recall the residual anger in Thorin's face as he talked about it, and if Bilbo wishes for anything, it's for nothing or no _one_ to cause that expression to him, ever again.

Fortunately, the first of the evening's performances is about to begin, and the boys and him reach a unanimous decision to retreat there, snatch some colorful sippy drinks along the way, and watch the opera singer perform her aria from their special personal booth, allowing them to relax and loosen their composure a little bit, away from the curious crowd.

Bilbo's eyes find Thorin easily enough, as if he's been trained to look for him – he simply shines brighter in his eyes than anyone in that massive damn hall, that's it. He's met up with... oh, Fridda's grandmother, the Duchess of Khazad, at least _one_ friendly face, thank god; and has politely decided to stay with the people, so to speak, but his gaze travels upward anyway, a bright smile and a wave that the Princes reciprocate.

Bilbo smiles as well, a tad stiffly, as he's suddenly far too aware of the sheer _mass_ of the people in the room, but that's the beauty of this, isn't it? He's invisible. All that anyone sees right now is the King waving at his nephews, an adorable display of familiarity, that's it. _Everyone will look to him, scrutinize him for a single slip-up, anything that would reveal, well, anything of interest,_ he remembers Miss Galadriel lecturing him. _You are not to touch him,_ _smile at him too long,_ _or even linger in his presence_ _at all_ _outside your duties concerning the Princes. There will always be people ready to start asking a lot of questions at the slightest hint of affection, anything that would imply the relationship between you two is anything but strictly personal._ Can you _keep it strictly personal?_

If he manages to survive until the spiked punch is brought out, then certainly.

“Stay together. No running, _absolutely_ no dancing unless it's the proper kind,” he lectures the boys as he's about to release them alongside the Prime Minister's children, their bodyguards nodding solemnly as if trying to convince him that everything will go just fine.

“I'll check on you soon,” Bilbo wags a finger at them, and they respond with a perfectly synchronized salute, making Dain's son and daughter giggle, before they all dash off to god knows where, and Bilbo is finally alone, finally has a moment to himself. He just wishes that thought didn't worry him so much.

He sets out to make a stop by the freshly opened buffet in the adjacent drawing rooms, and tries not to let the fact that he's lost track of Thorin's movements at one point worry him too much.

“Bilbo! Over here!”

Didn't even make it a dozen steps.

As overjoyed he is to see Fridda, Bard's eager smile and a wave beckoning him to come over somehow only serves to put him on edge – _and_ there's Gandalf, right there, and Bilbo somewhat hopes he won't notice him, but no, too late. At least they all _know,_ that's something, right?

“Bilbo! You look amazing, hi!” Fridda is her usual reassuring self, and he enjoys the not-at-all-appropriate-given-the-setting hug immensely.

“Thank you. _You_ look stunning. Hello again, Bard. …Evening, Gandalf. Have you been having a good time?”

Fridda opens her mouth to respond, but Gandalf steps forward, shaking Bilbo's hand with a bright smile.

“I can't believe you've been back all this time and we're only seeing each other _now,_ dear fellow,” he booms, and Bilbo sighs.

“Yes, I know. Not by choice. Well, a little by choice, come to think of it. I've been incredibly busy, you see, and my schedule simply can't support more than twenty minutes of _reliving past hurts_ each day.”

They all laugh, because that's what they're supposed to do, but even so, Bilbo feels a bit more satisfied. He still has a plethora of things he'd like to say to Gandalf, but none of them are quite suited for an event so formal.

“Well, I'm craving a drink,” Fridda announces, “Bilbo, will you accompany me? No no, Bard, you stay, I know you had some things you wanted to talk to Dr Grey about. We'll be right back.”

She doesn't even give them a second to protest, masterfully steering the somewhat bemused Bilbo away from them and through the crowd.

“Thank you,” he utters.

“Ah, don't mention it,” she grins, “Bard knows that if he bothers you too much today, he's sleeping on the couch, but I just wanted to make sure anyway. How are you holding up?”

“Oh, it's not all that bad, actually...” Bilbo starts, but trails off rather quickly and helplessly, his eyes immediately drawn to Thorin, who is striding across the hallway to them, followed by his security detail, Dain marching by his side, as well as a flock of other very important-looking people, only half of which Bilbo thinks he recognizes. They are all nursing glasses of champagne _and_ a lively conversation, smiles and jokes all around, and Bilbo suddenly feels very small compared to just about everyone, small and vulnerable and invisible.

That mood is by no means improved when Thorin only gives him a very short, very professional nod, and even though Bilbo _knows_ about everything that hides behind that, and _sees_ Thorin downing his tall glass as he marches away, because it's just as difficult for him as it is for Bilbo, he still feels his stomach turn.

“Damn,” Fridda mutters, “if I didn't know better...”

“Yes, I know,” Bilbo grunts, “lots and _lots_ of acting tonight. We've been trained not to show the slightest hint of emotion, don't you know. I need a drink.”

Thankfully no one heard _that._

“How long?” she asks, concerned, and he sighs raggedly – the champagne can't get here soon enough.

“I shouldn't really be talking about this... A year, give or take,” he confesses at last.

“Oh, Bilbo.”

“I know. I know. It's fine, it's... well, I suppose it's what it takes.”

They snatch their drinks, in no hurry to get anywhere, and find themselves a little alcove away from the general hubbub – it's colder by the tall window, which Bilbo appreciates, and looking out of it, he can see the top of the adjacent wing of the Palace, where Thorin's apartment... _their_ apartment is waiting. The longing to run away there is sudden and quite overwhelming – maybe, if he opens the door, he'll find Thorin waiting for him on the sofa like he so often does, no fancy uniform, just his everyday look of tired concentration over the last of his paperwork, and the warm smile he grants him even though he barely ever looks up from his work until Bilbo pads over there and sits down next to him...

“Hmm?” Bilbo mumbles absentmindedly, his glass stuck in between his lips, his mind elsewhere, yet still registering that Fridda has said something, “oh, I'm sorry. Sorry, I...”

“It's alright,” she smiles somewhat somberly, “I just want to make sure you're... well, okay.”

“I'm perfectly fine,” he smiles his best bright smile, and then when she continues glaring, one perfect eyebrow quirked slightly, he sighs, but the smile never leaves him.

“I'm fine,” he repeats quietly, with more conviction, “this is what I want.”

“Then that's all that matters,” she reaches to pat his arm, and they toast to nothing in particular, and remain like that for a moment, in a pleasant, companionable silence, until, inevitably, the rush of the Gala demands their attention yet again.

Bilbo goes searching after the boys, only to find them both dancing, and properly at that – Fili is twirling around Dain's little daughter, and Kili has found a companion of his own, a girl a couple of years older than him and _much_ taller, with an impressively long mane of fiery red hair. He seems quite taken with her, and she looks a tad aloof in that adorable way that children pretending not to care do.

“Tauriel, ward of Duke Zars’dashûn over there.”

That's Miss Kidzulzân, the Iron Lady of PR analysts and a walking thesaurus when it comes to nobility, appearing by his side out of nowhere, impeccable with her stunning silver robe and highly professional smile.

“The Duke Zars’dashûn talking to... His Majesty right now?” Bilbo asks, carefully casually.

“That's the one. His son Legolas next to him. The duke was born and raised in Erebor, but now resides in Austria. No doubt he came back just to see news of such... magnitude firsthand.”

Something in that offhand comment bothers Bilbo to no end, and he stares at the Duke, trying to figure him out. He's even taller than the King, and even at such a distance Bilbo sees a sort of... predatory quirk to his stern brow. He sighs raggedly, downing his glass of bubbly and reaching for another one when a waiter floats by.

“Easy,” Miss Galadriel reminds him gently.

“Should we even be seen together?” Bilbo jabs in response, the champagne getting to him the slightest bit, “surely there are people watching, ready to connect the dots?”

“Undoubtedly,” she smirks, “we should dance to prove them all wrong.”

“Yes, a fine picture we would make,” Bilbo rolls his eyes, “what with me being about two heads shorter than you, and everything.”

She measures him cautiously for a moment, assessing, and he's very close to apologizing, but then she sighs the way she's been doing for the past two months, as if she's coming to terms with the fact that handling this, handling _Bilbo_ will be anything but easy.

“Fresh air, then?” she suggests.

“Don't mind if I do.”

 

It's still a bit cold outside, even though spring is now here to stay, but Bilbo doesn't mind, and isn't the only one – people are conversing, drinking and smoking in little groups or alone, and the air smells of earth waking up and things slowly waking up and starting to grow. It's calming, and Bilbo inhales deeply, watching the illuminated mass of the Hurmulkezer, feeling a warmth that has nothing to do with an abundance of alcohol, really.

“You've been handling all this remarkably well,” Miss Kidzulzân notes as they stride past the length of the Common Wing, soft gravel crunching underfoot.

“Is that a compliment? Alert the authorities,” Bilbo scoffs playfully, and she rolls her eyes, charmingly undignified for a fraction of a second.

“Driving you insane is a part of my job,” she notes, “soon, I won't be the only one.”

“I realize that.”

“Do you? This time next year...” and at this, she scans their surroundings carefully for anyone who might be listening in, then after finding everything to her liking, continues more quietly, “this time next year, it might be you who is the center of attention.”

“Can't wait,” Bilbo grins.

“You're not taking this seriously.”

“Really? That's the first time I've heard that _today._ ”

“You know I'm simply being honest with you, for your own good.”

“Yes, I know. Surely you'll forgive me, then, if I'm honest with you as well,” Bilbo starts out fiery, but then loses some of his spunk and stops, looking from her with her... expectant eyebrows, to the white marble turned gold in the light of the halogens, as if the building itself might help him arrange his thoughts.

“This is what I want,” he says at last, merely repeating himself, but it puts his mind at ease, knowing the truth behind those words.

“This is what I want. Or better yet, what I want is to... be with him, do you understand? And if that means being the center of attention, if that's what it takes to be able to, to... I don't know, hold his hand in public, then that's what I'll do.”

She tilts her head, looking quite pleased, in fact.

“I know you keep telling me to never forget who he is,” Bilbo murmurs, sitting down on the nearest bench quite heavily, but still feeling strangely content, “that he has a country to run, and an image to uphold, that he's an icon now, but that's not... that's not the man I'm doing this for, you know? Oh, relax, no one is here.”

She frowns at him, but stops checking every bush for stowaway paparazzi or gossip-hungry nobles, and sits down next to him. A freshly rejuvenated fountain gurgles happily nearby, and the humbug of the Gala is only a distant whisper here – Bilbo closes his eyes briefly and remembers all the times the Princes and him have wandered through here, be it one of Fili's lessons, or simply just a walk...

“I have faith in you, you know,” Miss Galadriel says so earnestly that it warrants opening his eyes again and looking at her, somewhat dumbfounded.

“You do?”

“Of course!” she laughs, “do you think I would be doing this otherwise? You are one of a kind, Professor.”

“Oh, well, I wouldn't go so far as to...-” he sputters, but she merely waves her hand fussily.

“Oh, but you are. Give yourself some credit! You managed to ensnare a King, for crying out loud.”

“I wouldn't exactly say _ensnare..._ ” Bilbo giggles.

“Whatever you want to call it. Either way, the inconspicuous Brit reconciling the royal family, turning the country upside down _and_ claiming the most eligible bachelor in Europe in the process? People are going to _love this,_ believe me.”

Bilbo chokes on the remainder of his drink while she laughs some more, a refreshingly pleasant look on her.

“You really do know how to sell a story, don't you,” he chuckles, “believe me, if you told me two years ago that...-”

Her hand clasps his shoulder suddenly and firmly, a clear enough warning – a tall figure strides from behind the row of the neatly cut conifers nearby... too near?

“Do you think he...?” Bilbo sighs, but his voice sort of stops co-operating on its own when the man looks in their direction, his gaze lingering on Bilbo – he recognizes the Duke of Zars’dashûn, the one they saw in the ballroom earlier, and he is an even more imposing sight up close. His hair an almost unnatural platinum white frames his oddly timeless features, infuriatingly evergreen, as if he simply doesn't age, but the piercing gaze of his eyes is in a stark contrast with that, focused on Bilbo as if he's trying to extract his secrets from him by glaring alone. Bilbo opens his mouth to say something, defend himself perhaps, but the Duke turns away, as if Bilbo didn't warrant more than a second or two of his interest, and disappears quicker than he came, the spell broken thoroughly when his children follow him, conversing in loud, joyful German.

Bilbo looks helplessly to Miss Kidzulzân, his mouth hanging open, and she glowers, frowning in deep concern.

“Did he... I mean...?” Bilbo blabs, but before she can answer, his phone buzzes in his breast pocket, and he fishes it out, somewhat dazed still.

“The Princes request your presence, sir,” speaks one of the many interchangeable bodyguards, “right now, southern stairwell. It's urgent.”

“Go,” Galadriel doesn't even hesitate, “I'll go after Zars’dashûn, find out what he knows. Go, go.”

And so, still very much confused and also inappropriately tipsy, Bilbo hurries back to the Palace, only one thought lingering on his mind. _People are going to love this._ Provided everyone involved in this story survives the excitement.

-

 

This thing is a security _disaster._ _Decades_ couldn't have prepared them for this, and so clearly the smart thing to do was to hold the Gala _a month early_ this year. After the big news, the guest list expanded immensely, and Dwalin's dream of stationing one bodyguard per party-goer has crumbled into dust. Among other things.

It's not the vast number of windows he'll never cover with people, or the technicians informing him _two hours prior_ that the great chandelier in the main hall had a 'minor wiring issue, all settled now'. It's not even the fact that somehow, people start wandering outside an hour before schedule, or that there's no one covering the eastern stairwell for the entirety of _twenty damn minutes_. Or realizing that the veranda crew have been disconnected from the general channel by mistake and haven't found out yet simply because they haven't been reporting in.

No, Dwalin's biggest problem is, as usual, the King himself.

He's _almost_ forgiven him for deciding to leave the country behind three months ago, hop on a plane in the middle of the night and go knock on Bilbo's door _three countries and a sea away._ That was to be expected, Dwalin guesses. Thorin's utter lack of consideration for the ulcer he was causing him by deciding to stay overnight in a teeny tiny apartment in the middle of horrible, dark, strategically inadequate English suburbs, was also to be expected.

Dwalin is over _that,_ whatever. Thorin is happy, that's all that matters, isn't it? Bilbo has been, thank god, causing very little trouble ever since he came back, _exponentially_ less than last year (even though he still refuses to start carrying a gun again, damn him). Everything has been going... fine. And whenever things have been going _fine_ for too long, something's bound to go wrong for a change. Cosmic balance and all that crap.

Dwalin hopes with everything he's got that Thorin spacing out in the middle of a ballroom full of people wanting his attention will cover that.

“Where the hell is Balin?” he hisses into his earpiece.

His brother should be here, dammit, steering His Majesty in the right direction, which is, of course, everywhere at once – but no, as it is, he's stuck with a King who has to be _reminded_ to go from one dancing partner to another, from handshake to courteous handshake, and not for the first time and certainly not for the last, Dwalin admires his brother for his everlasting patience.

But then again, this is a first for both of them – dealing with a lovesick monarch.

Just for his sake, Dwalin keeps an eye out for Bilbo during the night, tracking his movements through the eyes of his crew, and it is when they announce to him that he's let the Princes roam free for a bit, that his premonitions about things going wrong _really_ prove themselves correct, and everything starts going slightly downhill – which in Dwalin's world means it's about time to announce a security lockdown and sit everybody down and take their alcohol away until they start behaving.

Four hours to midnight, a whole group of very important someones loses their way in the garden and ends up in the wrong part of the Palace entirely, raising a very quiet alarm that has Dwalin reminding everyone that _no, he really can't leave the King's side just because someone failed to do their job and keep a bunch of Counts out of the kitchens._

Roughly thirty minutes after that, His Royal Highness Prince Fili alongside the Prime Minister's son Erik decide to start telling people that no, the Gallery of the Kings isn't _that way,_ no Your Ladyship, take a right and end up _wandering into the garden labyrinth, why don't you._

Three hours to midnight, at least a hundred glasses have been broken and about four hundred and sixty five cases of mortal danger averted, and oh yes, His Majesty still keeps searching every hallway they step into for a particular someone, drinking far too much champagne in the process.

Two hours to midnight turns out to be one hour and fifty minutes, because the choir that is supposed to accompany the instrumental recital have also, somehow, entirely mysteriously, lost their way to the main ballroom.

Shortly after that, the King's father announces that he's going to bed, and it would be a perfectly normal announcement had he not mistaken the American ambassador for his caretaker.

Forty-three minutes to midnight, Dwalin is, not for the first time and certainly not for the last, very seriously considering handing in his resignation as he stands alongside His Majesty's PR specialist (who seems very much relaxed about the whole situation, _too relaxed,_ Dwalin's analyzing mind supplies, making a note to triple-check her background later), watching the only two people who weren't really supposed to be in the same room for longer than, say, a minute, standing side by side and making a scene.

It's romantic, in a way, Dwalin thinks – the most dreaded has happened, the Princes' grandparents have shown up _and_ found their way to the children when no one was looking (not even Dwalin's people, even though he'd _specifically warned them about this, dammit_ ), but the boys' distress worked like a dog whistle (well, that and the fact that their bodyguards were the only sane ones that night and alerted Bilbo), and both Bilbo and the King hurried to their side at the speed of light to defend them.

He's always despised these two, for what they've done to the King and the boys, and simply because they're just incredibly unpleasant people. Any time Dwalin sees them, they always tick him off, which really means something when one's work comprises mostly of seeing potential threats in people.

He thought he'd have to start telling his men to prepare for trouble when Duke Sten started raving on about how Thorin's coming out would send the entire country into disarray, using words like _traditional values_ and _reckless decisions_ – but clearly he'd forgotten what it meant to piss of _Bilbo._

“Excuse me,” he intervenes right after Duchess Ursa uses the ancient _think-of-the-children_ argument – Dwalin and Miss Galadriel hiss in unanimous horror, but it's too late to stop him now.

“Yes, hi, right here. My name is Bilbo Baggins. I've been the Princes' guardian for over a year now, and not that it'll change the fact that what you said was utterly disrespectful, but I would just like to reassure you that the boys have been thriving under His Majesty's care, and whether you choose to believe it or not doesn't change _another_ fact – I will make it my personal business to keep you as far away from them as possible.”

“The ban on tape recorders was very strict, yes?” Miss Kidzulzân utters casually.

“As was the ban on journalists in general,” Dwalin nods.

“Ah, people don't need journalists to spread gossip these days. Be a dear and keep an eye on Duke Zars’dashûn. But most importantly, get these two away from each other _yesterday._ ”

If there is one person aside from the King whose orders Dwalin might end up listening to in the coming days, it's probably her.

Separating Thorin and Bilbo doesn't quite go as planned, because they refuse to move from the boys' side for the rest of the night, more or less. And watching the four of them together when the fireworks paint the sky in bright colors, watching the boys smile bright and wide, and watching Thorin and Bilbo look at each other and linger, like nothing else really matters in the entire world, like they'd been searching for each other their entire lives and can now finally rest... Well, watching all that, Dwalin thinks that from now on, separating them, ever again? Probably not an option.

-

 

In the end, it's all about having someplace to hide when it all gets a bit overwhelming. Bilbo first realizes it when he stops by the staff building like he'd promised after putting the boys, thrilled and having gotten over the unpleasant encounter with their grandparents just as quickly as he'd hoped, into bed, and even though he can't wait to get out of there as well and run as fast as his feet will carry him to meet up with Thorin, he knows he has some time until all the kingly duties are over, and ends up having a very soothing late-night cup of tea with some of his favorite people.

They laugh endlessly at all the stories from that night, and actually have to shoo Bilbo off to go home, and as he pads through the hallways, all quiet and peacefully empty now, he wonders if it will always be this nice. He wouldn't so far as to use the word _easy_ , because if tonight has proven anything it's that he's not picked the _easy_ way, but... Perhaps Happily Ever After will last the rest of his life after all.

He's certainly inclined to believe it when he finally makes it back to the apartment. Thorin is already there, having just come in judging by the fact that he's still in full uniform, standing by the window like a marble statue, his features soft, and Bilbo especially enjoys the shift from that, immovable and astonishing, to the warmth and joy that reigns when he notices him coming.

“Hi, Your Majesty,” Bilbo grins.

“Hello, Professor,” Thorin smirks, and reaching for each other is the most natural turn of events, really.

“God, I missed you,” Bilbo murmurs when he has a second to breathe, “next year, can you reduce the number of your dancing partners to... I don't know, no one?”

Thorin's laughter is a quiet rumble, and he gazes at Bilbo with a tenderness he hasn't quite gotten used to yet. Bilbo opens his mouth to comment, but Thorin turns away from him quite abruptly, and strides across the room, fiddling with... what exactly? Oh, the sound system?

“What are we doing?”

Looking satisfied, Thorin presses something, and turns to Bilbo to the first tones of...

“Oh,” Bilbo exhales quite giddily.

“We are having our dance,” Thorin announces, his hand outstretched to Bilbo, inviting him close, and who could say no to that, really.

“Oh,” is the only thing he manages, again, but the broad smile isn't something he can really fight off, especially when faced with Thorin's own.

They meet halfway, and it doesn't really matter that their dance floor isn't a ballroom, and that there are no chandeliers overhead or live musicians playing the waltz – the light of the tall lamp by the fireplace and Peter Gabriel's rich voice reminding them that the book of love was _'written very long ago'_ is more than enough.

“Next year,” Thorin states clearly, his gaze having captured Bilbo's and not planning on releasing it any time soon, “I want you by my side.”

“As in...?” Bilbo tilts his head.

“As in officially. As in I don't want to let go of you for one second, all night through. As in I want everyone to know you're there with me. ...If you want,” he adds almost sheepishly.

Bilbo stares. _Now would be the time to count your luck, to be amazed, to be frightened. Anything. But no, here you are, happiest you've ever been, and this feels like the most natural thing in the world, and... why exactly should you doubt that again?_

“Next year,” he agrees in a whisper, and Thorin exhales shakily, as if he's been holding his breath all this time.

“Next year,” Bilbo repeats, standing on his tiptoes and pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth for each of them, “and the next, and the next one, and the one after that. If you want.”

Mapping out Thorin's smiles with his lips has become one of Bilbo's favorite pastimes, and he indulges himself plenty as they dance, Thorin's arm securing him close, their fingers twined on his chest, their tempo slow and lazy.

“The boys alright?” Thorin reassures himself quietly, his nose nuzzling Bilbo's hair.

“Perfectly fine. Though I think Fili wants to make some inquiries about disowning the Urs-Tarags or some such thing, we're going to have to talk him out of that one.”

“Not necessarily,” Thorin chuckles.

“I hope I didn't...” Bilbo gulps, then starts over, oddly glad the he doesn't have to look up into Thorin's eyes for now, “I hope that wasn't too forward of me.”

“Oh, I'm sure they thought so. _I_ thought it was...”

“...Yes?”

“Amazing. Brave.”

Bilbo does look up then, though neither of them is too keen on allowing much space between them.

“ _Inappropriately_ brave?” he suggests.

“Just brave,” Thorin smiles, then adds with an intensity to his gaze that only ever means one thing, and that Bilbo has been more than conditioned to get all shivery and excited about, “it was very difficult not kissing you in front of all those people.”

“Well, welcome to my world,” Bilbo snickers.

Thorin quirks an eyebrow, as if he can't quite believe it, and so Bilbo kisses him to convince him, and, yes, to make up for all the times they weren't allowed to do exactly that tonight. Soon enough, it's all less dancing and more kissing on the move, the destination still waiting to be determined based on their restraint.

“You look fantastic in that,” Bilbo notes, fingers already fumbling for the golden brass buttons of the very uniform that's been driving him crazy all night, “but I'm afraid we're still going to have to get rid of it.”

“Such a shame,” Thorin chuckles breathlessly, then, when Bilbo remains unsuccessful, “wait, hold on, hold on. There's a... system to this.”

“Oh, you're _kidding me_ ,” Bilbo groans, only to burst into quiet laughter alongside Thorin, albeit one that's quickly snuffed out by more exciting activities.

“Alright, system,” Bilbo orders when it becomes obvious that things will from now on be heading in just one _very_ exciting direction, “demonstrate, now.”

Something very pleased and determined flashes across Thorin's face, and he leads Bilbo into the bedroom wordlessly.

“The belt first, I'm guessing?” Bilbo sizes him up and down, sounding much more confident than he's feeling – Thorin merely nods, and Bilbo frowns at his sudden lack of cooperation, but reaches to undo the heavy engraved clasp anyway, fortunately figuring out the mechanism quickly enough.

“Now the sash,” Thorin mumbles, guiding Bilbo's hands to unpin the braided golden epaulette, bowing his head and stooping down a little bit to the amusement of them both so that Bilbo can take the sash off carefully, hurrying to fetch a hanger from the nearest wardrobe, the heavy silken thing draped over his arm.

“Don't start without me!” he calls to Thorin playfully, receiving an amused: “Wouldn't dream of it.”

...And then it's the damn brass buttons again, but this time they give way much more easily – Thorin stands stock still and very quiet, and Bilbo inadvertently slows down, not quite ready yet to let go of the moment, Thorin's chest rising and falling evenly, though his breath seems to catch a little bit with each button Bilbo manages to undo.

“Zipper on the left,” Thorin guides him quietly when the uniform resists still, and Bilbo can't even find it within him to comment indignantly – the combination of Thorin's warmth radiating strong even through the thick luxurious fabric, and his piercing gaze Bilbo feels but doesn't dare reciprocate just yet, is a bit overwhelming.

At long last, it gives way, and Bilbo shrugs the thing off Thorin's broad shoulders, letting him take care of it while he tiptoes to reach behind his neck and unfasten the intricately folded dickey, his job made much more difficult by Thorin insisting on burying his nose in the crook of _his_ neck and effectively making him lose all balance _and_ composure.

“Patience,” Bilbo manages somewhat raggedly, and Thorin hums his disagreement, hands already sneaking to find any spot of Bilbo's bare skin.

“Your turn,” he announces, untying his bowtie shockingly quickly and deftly, yanking and tossing it away, gaining a little yelp as a reward, and Bilbo grumbles vaguely, but decides to repay him in kind, grabbing at his shirt and tugging it up and out of his trousers with a determination very unlike him.

Thorin _growls_ under his breath _,_ an incredibly attractive sound that Bilbo very much savors, since it's apparently paramount that they make up for an entire _lifetime_ of not kissing each other in just these short moments. Not that he's complaining.

They're both of them still rather lightheaded from the evening _and_ the champagne, and so it's a bit more stumbling than anything else before they finally make it into the shower, sorely in need of it and leaving their options entirely open – either it will put them to sleep, or it will clear their heads just enough to realize that sleep is the very last thing on their minds.

... _Or_ they will both break something the second they forget to worry about balance – things might be getting very nicely steamy, in every possible meaning of the word, but they're not twenty anymore, and the tiles are _very_ slippery.

“Out,” Thorin decides for both of them, and they step out again overly carefully, holding onto each other like old men.

“We should get one of those anti-slip pad-things,” Bilbo decides wisely, subsequently getting the giggles when Thorin regards him highly suspiciously.

“I don't want to feel seventy every time I step in my shower,” he pouts.

“Well, you will anyway, if you slip and break your hip.”

“Good point. How I wish it were the only way I could break it.”

“Cheeky,” Bilbo huffs and Thorin shrugs – they are, in fact, standing in their bathroom in nothing but towels, steaming quietly. If ever there was an appropriate time to be cheeky, it's probably now.

“Come on,” Bilbo orders, and Thorin follows, and really, it's become so easy, this.

Much like in everything else, they've quickly decided that they have all the time in the world, and it works. Even thought they don't, in fact, have _nearly enough_ time on most days, falling into bed late into the night utterly knackered and waking up in the morning with about five seconds to spare before duty calls. And both of them, having lived accustomed to loneliness for a rather long time before meeting each other, are more than happy to take things slow, Bilbo knows.

But still... The guests have left, the boys are asleep, no one is coming to interrupt them anymore tonight, and it only takes a moment of warm, lazy kissing, chest to naked chest, to determine that the amount of champagne drunk tonight fortunately wasn't _too much._

Bilbo knows he doesn't really _have to_ ask, but asks anyway: “What do you think?”

“ _Ranakmi_ _zurulmizu_ _,_ ” Thorin sighs, his fingertips traveling up Bilbo's spine as if trying to catch up with the shudder dancing up it as well.

_I think I want you._

Bilbo _does_ feel twenty again right there and then, and it's a very nice feeling indeed – gives him just enough courage to bother Thorin's bottom lip properly one last time before taking his mouth elsewhere, a slow but clear downward journey. It really is a feeling like no other, making Thorin lose restraint so easily – before long, his fingers are in Bilbo's hair, trying not to tug too hard, but Bilbo reassures him that it's perfectly alright, using his tongue to relay the message, but certainly not through words.

He allows himself a glance up and sees wonders – Thorin's cheeks a lovely shade of flustered red, his chest heaving in erratic breaths and gasps. Bilbo soothes it with his hand, scratching and teasing gently, his work all the more enjoyable for it.

Thorin complains almost convincingly enough for him to think twice before he stops, but he prevails.

“There's a system to this, you know.”

And Thorin laughs, and knows – soon, Bilbo is the one on his back, and how does the story go again? Reconciling the family, turning the country upside down, claiming the most eligible bachelor in Europe? Not only does Bilbo feel like the one being claimed right now, he also feels he's agreed to this distinctly misinformed – if they ever ask him, next year, or the next one, or the one after that, what it feels like to have come from nothing to everything, he will have a very hard time _not_ immediately thinking of something way too inappropriate for the general media.

_Astonishing,_ his curling toes suggest. _Fantastic,_ the moan that escapes despite his best efforts says. _Unexpectedly intense,_ his fingers twisting the sheets add.

“Easy,” Thorin confirms all.

Bilbo grins down at him, heedlessly, raking his damp hair out of his face, and it really is, all of it. _Easy._

“Bottom drawer,” he reminds Thorin cheerfully, remembering how thoroughly weird it had felt, shopping for things he hadn't shopped for in years, and knowing _who_ he was shopping them for. O _h no, t_ _hese are not for the King who's currently speaking about green energy on that TV above your head, not at all,_ he'd been tempted to say to the teller, but fortunately kept his mouth shut.

Can't quite keep his mouth shut now, though, because it's all very overwhelming, and also because Thorin will need some guidance – once upon a time, Bilbo had made an impression on the King by stubbornly insisting that he knew better, about so many things, and as it turns out, he will now forever be the only one with the privilege of telling him what to do. Not that anyone needs to know just how intimate that privilege is.

“Easy,” Bilbo borrows the word again, gasping it shakily, his body still rather unsure whether it wants closer or away, and Thorin slows down immediately.

“More,” he pleads moments later, and Thorin obliges, preparing him with a meticulous care, his lips pressing soft assurances to his knees and thighs.

“Now,” he decides, the warm weight of pleasure in his belly pleading with a dizzying intensity, but even the slightest hint of Thorin's uncertainty is enough to cut through that.

“Hey,” Bilbo exhales, reaching out for him, “come here.”

He follows that instruction as well, and Bilbo kisses the tension out of him, soothes it out of his back with long, sweeping strokes.

“It's alright,” he murmurs, “I just want you... want you to be comfortable, I...”

“I know,” Thorin breathes, “I know, I know, I...”

“Lie down,” Bilbo suggests gently, then, when Thorin doesn't understand, or pretends not to, tugging him down into one more kiss, always the best means of conveying whatever he wants to say, “on your back.”

Next year, or the next one, or the one after that, they're going to ask him about his insights on living with a King, _is it even possible to have your own way in a relationship with a monarch?_ And Bilbo will tell them _no, you don't understand, to me he isn't that. He is a man like any other, slipping in the shower, and forgetting to put his socks on in the morning, and he laughs and complains and loves_ and obliges _like any other, believe me._

When in private, though, Bilbo suspects that Thorin will forever keep defying at least one of those statements, because he's currently loving him like no one ever has before – the initial feeling is almost too much for both of them, and they take their time, breathing each other's air, if not steadily then certainly hungrily, searching for equilibrium in each other's eyes.

A decision is reached without a single word – strain transforms into delicious pressure, tension into tenderness, stillness into rhythm, silence into incoherent but heartfelt praise. Thorin mutters statements no newspaper will ever hear into the crook of Bilbo's neck, and Bilbo can't but hold on and agree, let him know somehow that this is it, this is enough. This is perfect. This is theirs, and theirs alone.

“Love you,” Bilbo confesses, a keening whisper, and Thorin's restraint is gone, he disposes of it with a beautifully devastated little noise only for Bilbo to cherish, and the heat and weight of him are almost suffocating, almost too much and yet never enough, and he grants him one look, crushed and open, and Bilbo confirms, _I do, I do,_ and it's enough.

 

Maybe, Bilbo speculates later, fingertips tracing Thorin's jaw, the lines of his face softer, relaxed, sated, maybe it won't always be so. Happily Ever After is one thing, but despite it being written right there, no one ever reminds you that it is, in fact, for the rest of your life. Love won't always be enough. Despite what fairytales would have you believe, it's not a magical cure-all. There are some issues it cannot fix, only blunt their edges.

Thorin and him have both worked hard to get here, and they deserve this, to an extent, they deserve contentment and happiness, but it is not the end, no. Exactly the opposite, in fact. They will not be happy _every day,_ he concedes when Thorin's hand covers the scar on his lower back again. There will be demons to chase away, and most of those demons will be nowhere near as terrifying as the echoes of gunshots and nightmares of empty hallways. No, they will disguise themselves as common parts of everyday reality, arguments and misunderstandings and boredom, and though they seem miles away now, they would both be fools to think they will never come.

“ _Amr_ _â_ _lime_ _,_ ” Thorin tells him, grabbing his wrist gently and kissing his knuckles, and the leap Bilbo's heart makes when he automatically translates, reassures him that no matter the future, love is enough _for now._

And when the future does come, and the demons threaten to take over, it will _absolutely_ be enough to make fighting them worthwhile.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh my gosh, okay, a veeery chunky, incredibly cheesy Gala chapter, hope you enjoyed it guys :D I was originally planning on writing almost the entirety of it from Dwalin's POV, but when it turned out to be a no-go, I still wanted to include him a bit. He was a lot of fun. Regarding that ending... I'm sure you noticed way back in NGCS that I was never too keen on writing anything explicit for Thorin and Bilbo in this particular AU, simply because I felt like it didn't suit them. But they did deserve their bit of unabashed happiness at long last, I figured, and I hope I managed to make it satisfying for those of you who have been looking forward to it, heh. It was a nice challenge to write. (Oh, and Thranduil's surname means Dark Forest. How very crafty of me.)


	4. Chapter 4

Doors are locked, and calls put on hold, and tea is poured – only someone in their position can afford this, can afford to disappear and let the Palace run itself for twenty minutes, knowing that it won't collapse, precisely because they've _made sure of that._

“This is getting out of hand,” announces Deidre, diligently sweetening her tea, about as much sugar as there is of the actual liquid.

“Agreed,” sighs Balin, stuffing his pipe with calm precision.

“I've got a girl who's scarred _for life,_ because she opened the wrong drawer _once._ And don't even get me started on the laundry ladies.”

“I've had to adjust the bellboys' schedules and notify them so that they _don't_ stray from their usual routes, and _definitely_ don't go exploring weird noises in far off broom closets. Dwalin's man learned that the hard way just last week.”

“Was he the one who saw-”

“Oh yes. I owe him a bottle of something strong.”

“Ridiculous,” Deidre purses her lips, sipping on her tea and grimacing powerfully, as if she's offended that it dare be far too sweet, “I thought they were told to keep it under wraps.”

“Yes, well, that's part of the appeal, I imagine,” Balin sighs solemnly.

“ _Furkhud Mahal_ _._ If you told me a year ago I'd be telling the King to _just cover that lovebite on your neck_ _for crying out loud_ _,_ I'd laugh at you, you know what I mean?”

“I do know,” Balin shakes his head sadly, “do you know how many times I've had to remind him that there _are_ in fact cameras _everywhere?_ Dwalin destroys _at least_ an hour of... compromising footage _a week._ ”

“Do I want to know? I _don't_ want to know. Also my response every time I notice one or both of them _limping._ ”

A pained hiss is the unanimous response to that, and they both commiserate in silence for a moment, staring blankly into their tea, most certainly trying _not to_ remember.

“Something has to be done about this,” Deidre decides.

“Oh, I'm accepting any and all suggestions, especially if they keep His Majesty from excusing himself from his duties at the least opportune moments to run _personal errands._ ”

“Is that what they're calling it these days?  _ Tashrab  _ _ îzunmurkh _ _ . _ Anyway, yes, I think the solution might be deceptively simple, actually.”

“I'm all ears,” Balin smiles the smile of a man who's had to look away from far too many kisses.

“Well, I honestly think they just need to get away, both of them. A couple of days off, away from the Palace. They've been talking about taking the boys to the house in the mountains for a while now.”

“Honestly? I can't quite imagine having the Princes around will be solving _any_ of their problems,” Balin notes, clearing his throat daintily when Deidre gazes at him mildly horrified – she's just as bad as he is, of course, but takes more care to hide it.

“You're right,” she grumbles, looking pensive for a moment, “well, surely the boys will survive without Bilbo for a couple of days.”

“No doubt. But balancing four schedules so that that works out?” Balin frowns, getting a headache at the very idea.

“Oh, come now,” Deidre sniggers, as if she's chastising him for not having enough faith in their abilities, “between the two of us, we can make _anything_ happen.”

-

 

“Alright, Bilbo, ready?”

“No. But I don't think I ever will be, so we might as well get started.”

“Okay, here we go, first one!”

Bilbo squints at the piece of paper Fili turns over for him to see.

“Oh, wait, wait, I know this one! An axe and a hammer on red, that's, uh...”

“Come on, that's the easiest one! You remember the House of Khazad-Dum with all the eagles and swords and frilly bits, but not this one?”

“Oh, right, of course, the charming House Urs-Tarag, how could I forget,” Bilbo sighs, and Muzmith the kitten in his lap purrs as if in agreement.

“Correct!” Fili exclaims, “now how do you say that properly?”

“Oh god, um...” Bilbo squints some more, then finally resorts to his cheat sheet, each coat of arms he's supposed to learn listed there along with a handy description.

“Gules an axe and a hammer in saltire Or – bloody hell, this is ridiculous. Heraldry is ridiculous.”

“I thought you liked the language,” Fili notes matter-of-factly, rearranging his neat stack of papers meticulously.

“Oh, the language is _beautiful._ What I dislike is the absolute lack of desire for modernization, I mean, surely it's alright to change _some of the terms..._ ”

“You could always start learning all of it in actual Khuzdul,” Fili sniggers.

“Right. Please, I'm glad I can carry a somewhat normal conversation. Do _you_ even know how to say all this in Khuzdul?”

“It's my duty as a Prince,” Fili says very seriously.

“So, no?”

“Can't be bothered,” the boy nods solemnly, and they both burst into laughter, which annoys Muzmith, who jumps out of Bilbo's lap and saunters away very majestically, which finally gives him an opportunity to stand up and stretch both his arms and legs.

“Well then, what do you say we go see about a snack now?” he announces, and Fili tilts his head, frowning.

“We've only just gotten started. You're a bad student. I'm telling Uncle.”

“You wouldn't dare,” Bilbo gasps in theatrical horror, but then waves his hand, “oh, it doesn't matter. I'm baking him muffins, I'm sure he'll forgive me.”

“Not cupcakes this time? Is there even a difference?” Fili demands to know, their studying left behind in the living room as they make their way into the kitchen.

“Oh yes, yes there is a difference, and a very important one!” Bilbo lectures, “the dough is different, and basically, cupcakes are smaller and you put all sorts of delicious frosting on them, whereas muffins are a sort of puffier dough, larger, and you typically put stuff _inside_ them.”

“Like blueberries.”

“Exactly like blueberries, yes. You know what, fetch those blasted coats of arms, we'll run through them one more time while I fix us something to eat. And get your brother, too.”

“Fine,” Fili sighs, and patters away, and Bilbo finds the kitchen peacefully deserted – sunlight streams in through the windows, and it's not just for show anymore, either. It's actual warmth, spring in full power, and Bilbo goes to stand by the terrace door, letting the sun warm up his back for just a moment, like a contented old man.

They've only been here at the lodge for three days, and already he feels... well, like he never wants to leave again, for one, and incredibly well-rested and satisfied as well. Sadly, Thorin _is_ still King, and so he's currently on the other side of the country for a couple of hours, unable to enjoy the immediate benefits, but Bilbo considers the fact that this is only his first time away from here a small victory – and if he has any say in the matter whatsoever, it will also be his last.

But all in all, a very good idea, yes, but don't ask Bilbo how they got here – at some point the stars and planets probably converged in the sky and allowed for all of their schedules to intersect in a perfect moment of blissful freedom. He knows the truth might be a bit more prosaic than that, someone making it their _mission_ to get them the few precious days of rest where they were unable to make that happen themselves. But he's certainly not going to look a gift horse in the mouth – or _stir the gift broth more than once_ , as a true Ereborean would say – and just has to remember to buy Balin his favorite pipeweed, and Deidre a bottle of something spicy and strong when they come back.

_ That _ is happening the day after tomorrow, but it feels weeks away still, and like ages since they came here – the weather has been absolutely incredible, and so a lot of that time was spent outside, the boys dragging them off to see the forest, or making Thorin and the bodyguards play soccer with them in the backyard, and most notably last night, the barbecue Beorn had set up for all of them on the terrace, the night incredibly warm, all of them huddled around the bonfire supplementing the feeling of wilderness while their dinner roasted on the distinctly less exciting modern grill nearby.

Bilbo knows that it isn't forever, understands very well just how unusual it is for everyone involved, and yet a part of him wishes it were like this all the time. He wouldn't change the life at the Palace for anything, complete with studying heraldry and history and current events in night classes as if he were one of those people who learn a new language in ridiculously overpriced courses three times a week for fear of wasting their lives away – no, he adores it all to his very bones, and thinks he's very good at not letting it overwhelm him,  but still, sometimes... Well, nothing. Nothing. This is enough, is it not. Absolutely.

_ Absolutely, _ he decides, turning his attention to sandwiches and listening for the boys still half a house away, but loud enough in their approach, until they fill the kitchen with their squabbling about this or that, only munching on their afternoon snack because Bilbo practically puts it into their hands, never interrupting their very serious discussion about this or that pop culture phenomenon Bilbo can't pretend to be even remotely knowledgeable on.

Thorin arrives right when the Princes move onto quizzing him on a topic he should be  _extremely_ knowledgeable on, but all heraldry is promptly forgotten with a kiss he plants on Bilbo's cheek, innocent and chaste, and yet enough to bring back that feeling Bilbo's been missing all day – only with all three of them by his side are any and all rooms he finds himself in truly full.

“You're back early,” he comments, Thorin fetching a sandwich of his own and somehow managing to balance that _and_ seating Kili in his lap at the table.

“Finished early,” Thorin explains, “on account of _more important_ business.”

“Eating sandwiches isn't business, _Indâd,_ ” Kili remarks seriously.

“Is it not? I think I might just have to make it an official business then,” Thorin declares solemnly, “wouldn't you like to get paid for just eating a lot of sandwiches all day, huh?”

“Hmm,” Kili seems to think about it, “could I make my own? Or would I have to eat what people give me?”

“You know, that's a very good question,” Thorin grins.

“You could be one of those... _osmikun?_ But for sandwiches? Bilbo, what's it called-”

“A taster?” Bilbo translates Fili's word, “like a person who eats all food first so that the actually important people don't get poisoned?”

“Yeah! I saw it in a movie, and all the Kings used to have them, right, _Indâd_?”

“That's true. Even your great-grandfather had one, actually.”

“Really?” Kili exclaims, “were people trying to poison him?”

“He thought they might be,” Thorin shrugs, and he says it casually, but Bilbo is reminded, not for the first time and probably not for the last, just how deep-seated Thror's paranoia had been – he's read up absolutely everything there is to read about his reign, of course, but there's nothing quite like witnessing the remnants and reminders of it in real life, up close.

But if there's one thing he's learned, one thing this house is a prime example of, it's that some ghosts will simply always haunt you. One just has to learn to live with them, let them linger in the background until they're not even a little bit scary anymore.

Standing in that same kitchen later that night, after they've put the boys to bed, and  baking  the same blueberry muffin s batter he'd  baked ... well, much less than a year ago, Bilbo is glad to discover that his particular ghosts have ceased scaring him a long time ago. It was in this very same kitchen, over exactly the same blueberry muffins, that Thorin and him finally... well, sealed the deal. Hah. So to speak. Not that Bilbo has a lot of people to tell the story to, but whenever he does go over it, be it only in his head, he likes to remember th at as the first kiss that counted – the one before that, he still gets embarrassed about, actually.

At that moment, Thorin reappears in the kitchen as if summoned by all the thinking of the past, but when his arms sneak around Bilbo's waist from behind and his nose buries into the crook of Bilbo's neck, he's reminded that indeed, the past is the past, and the present is  _so. Much. Better._

“Evening,” he sighs happily, washing the dishes momentarily forgotten in favor of covering Thorin's warm hands on his belly with his own, squeezing briefly.

“Hmm,” Thorin agrees, “smells amazing. When will those be ready?”

“The morning,” Bilbo says firmly, “you'll thank me then.”

Thorin rumbles with less appreciation now, but it still manages to send a pleasant tingle up Bilbo's spine.

“Shoo, you,” he scolds nevertheless, “you're very distracting.”

“Am I,” Thorin murmurs, the low tone of his voice suggesting he has absolutely no intention of acting any different.

“Yes, you...-” Bilbo starts, but is cut off by his own treacherous willpower, a gasp escaping him when Thorin seals his lips to the nape of his neck, tickling and pleasantly warm at the same time.

Coupled with his hands splayed flat on his stomach still, one thumb stroking gentle half-circles, the sensation is thoroughly disarming, and Bilbo surrenders for a moment, exhaling deeply and inclining his head to the side, baring his neck more for Thorin, who claims the new-found ground immediately.

Bilbo hums contentedly,  kitchen cleanliness forgotten entirely in favor of entwining his fingers with Thorin's and leaning back into his embrace, both of them swaying softly as they rediscover their balance. It is only when Thorin's touch travels lower that Bilbo's eyes flutter open and he tsk-tsks, a little exhilarated giggle escaping him when Thorin stops immediately.

“That's very unhygienic,” Bilbo says the first thing that comes to mind, and Thorin's laughter makes him shiver, chipping away at his convictions rather successfully.

Ever so tentatively, Thorin's fingertips brush at the hem of Bilbo's cardigan and up under it, all the way to the belt buckle, and Bilbo lets him explore, especially since it comes with a side of exhilarating neck kisses still. He only continues to cover Thorin's hands with his own, not stopping him, only guiding,  and wonders somewhat dizzily how long he'll be able to keep upright  at this rate  without his legs giving out from under him.

Thorin undoes his belt deftly, but slowly, leaving him room to decide against it yet, but as far as Bilbo is concerned, hygiene can go to hell right about now. He whimpers when Thorin's touch meets bare skin, back arching languidly, Thorin's arm wrapping around his chest to secure him in place while his other hand dives into his trousers...

“Bilbo?”

It serves to the agility of the both of them that they manage not to topple to the ground in their hurried fumbling. Thorin turns around and Bilbo peeks out from behind him, not entirely as presentable as he'd like to be.

“What's wrong, Fili?” he asks, trying not to let the boyish grin take over too obviously.

“Kili's hearing sounds again,” the boy announces, “I just want a glass of water, but I thought I'd let you know. I think he's asleep now, though.”

Behind him, his bodyguard shrugs somewhat helplessly – he's not to be blamed, though, as this is hardly the first time Fili has demanded to be escorted out of his bed in the middle of the night after all.

“That's, uh... Good, thank you,” Bilbo stammers.

“We'll come check on him in a while,” Thorin says much more steadily, “get your drink and off with you, hurry up, you should be long asleep.”

“Hmm,” the Prince pouts, rubbing his eyes and looking dangerously alert, “can't I stay until the muffins are finished?”

“Greedy like your Uncle,” Bilbo shakes his head, dodging the half-hearted elbow heading for his ribs, “absolutely not. They will be waiting for you in the morning. Go on, grab a glass, have a drink, and hurry back to bed.”

“You're both very snippy tonight,” Fili notes, patting barefoot around them to the sink, “am I interrupting something?”

The highly unexpected sound of muffled laughter from Thorin doesn't do much for Bilbo's own resolve, but still he manages to retort quickly and almost seamlessly: “Your own sleep, that's what. Go on, get.”

Bright, clever eyes watch them attentively as  Fili downs his glass of water with a thirst only a teenage boy can possess so suddenly, and a quick conversation without words happens between Bilbo and Thorin then, reaching a unanimous decision quickly.

“Let's go, then,” Thorin announces, putting a hand on Fili's shoulder and all but setting him on the course that leads out of the kitchen, “I'll go see about Kili. I'll be right back.”

That last sentence is for Bilbo, who simply smiles his affirmation, and waits for all of them to disappear to chuckle to himself – no one ever said a holiday actually meant  _absolute_ peace, did they.

He's proven right  _yet again_ later that same night, muffins long cooled off, Thorin and him reunited, hair damp and skin hot from the shower, their blankets a perfect hideaway for their lazy kissing, murmuring sweet nothings against each other's lips, their touches confirming their words... until a quiet, unsteady knock on the door.

“Next time, we vacation in an underground bunker,” Thorin decides grumpily, putting some distance between them only highly reluctantly, “no landlines, no unexpected visitors, no nothing. _Ai, imdini!_ ”

It's Bert, Kili's bodyguard, this time, opening the door and letting the Prince in – Kili is very tiny in the doorway, barefoot and his hair all mussed, and even in the dim glow coming from the hallway, it's obvious that he's very distressed.

“What's wrong, darling?” Bilbo scrambles to sit up, outstretching his arms to him, while Thorin nods shortly to the bodyguard, who disappears as quickly as he came.

“I don't want to be in that room anymore,” the boy sniffs, climbing onto their bed laboriously, “I hear noises all the time, but Fili says it's just the wind, but I'm still scared. And he's asleep now and I didn't wanna wake him so I came here, and...”

His sob is half hiccup, half a yawn, and Bilbo, already having mustered enough quick wit to slip back into his pajama bottoms, cradles him in his arms, giving Thorin time to do the same.

“It's alright,” he soothes Kili's hair, “you're alright now, there are no scary noises here.”

“Anymore,” Thorin mutters under his breath, and receives a kick in the shin for that – but he is nothing but attentive with Kili as well, and together, they lay him down in between them, Bilbo soothing his back while Thorin covers both his tiny hands with one of his.

“It's alright, darling, you can stay here tonight,” Bilbo murmurs, Thorin's tired smile mirroring his decision, and Kili mumbles something incomprehensible, curling up on himself even more.

They drape the blanket over all three of them, and before long, the boy's breathing stills – both Bilbo and Thorin settle into more comfortable positions, leaving more room between them than usual to accommodate him. Bilbo reaches to cradle Thorin's cheek now, and receives a kiss on his knuckles in return, and as they wish their goodnight to one another, he can't help but think  that... well, just when he thinks he's experienced the most perfect moment he possibly can with this family, something else comes along to surprise him and leave him feeling very grateful for his luck.

Things won't always be as easy as lulling a distraught boy to sleep, but he's quite certain that remembering times like these will make the more difficult ones so much easier to bear.

“Goodnight,” he murmurs, fingertips brushing at Thorin's neck before he retreats and keeps his hands to himself.

“ _Zadkhul'jalai id-abadâg,_ ” Thorin sighs, his eyes fluttering close – it almost literally translates to ' _storytelling dreams_ ', and Bilbo considers telling him that he doesn't need any of those anymore. That all the dreams he's really cared about have come true.

-

 

Across the country,  beyond tall windows overlooking the bright jewel of nighttime Erebor , a phone rings. It is an almost violent sound in the quiet of the loft, and she eyes it with some disdain, calculating the effort it will take her to deal with it. But it  _is_ a Palace number, so her options are limited when it comes to avoiding it.

“Yes?” she sighs, relenting at long last.

“Miss Kidzulzân. It's Fundinsson.”

“Ah, yes, good evening. How's Palace security?”

“I wouldn't know, I'm with the family.”

“Ah, of course, the mountain retreat. How's that going? Have they been keeping out of sight?”

“Yes. You asked me to keep you in the loop regarding my findings about a potential threat.”

“Oh, yes... yes, I did. You've run the background check?” she lets a carefully controlled amount of curiosity seep into her voice, her eyes following the tiny shining dot of a party boat slowly making its way down the twinkling ribbon of the river miles away and below.

“I've run much more than that, I assure you.”

“And? Anything exciting?”

“You could say that. I would like to discuss this in person only, if you don't mind.”

He sounds unhappy. But then again, when does he ever not, she reminds herself, moving to fetch her planner.

“I don't mind in the slightest. My next appointment at the Palace is on Wednesday-”

“I'd prefer it if we didn't meet on Palace grounds,” he cuts her off tersely enough so that she starts to get _really_ interested, “can you meet me in the city at the beginning of next week? Monday morning, if at all possible. The family return from their vacation on Sunday afternoon.”

“I see,” she smiles, tapping her lips with her pen thoughtfully, “10am sharp, Nenya Cafe.”

“Very good. I'll see you then. Apologies for disturbing your evening.”

“Oh – hold on, would you. Do you wish me to inform-”

“No, no one. I'd thank you not to _inform_ anyone, least of all Doctor Grey. Are we understood?”

“Understood,” she chuckles, “good night, Dwalin.”

His response is ending the call, and she smiles at the phone, before pocketing it and sitting down on the  floor cross-legged, simply admiring the view for just a bit – out of all the struggling royal families and dignitaries, she's somehow found her way to this one. Talk about luck.

-

 

If he ever had any hopes of getting Bilbo to himself in the morning, maybe he should have decided they stay at the Palace – when he wakes up, not only is Kili gone, but so is Bilbo, presumably dutifully making sure the boy is fine. Thorin's suspicions prove right when both Princes reenter the bedroom just as he's about to get up, followed by his love carrying a breakfast tray – he stares, a bit blearily perhaps, but Bilbo just laughs and tells him to eat, and they all settle around him, Fili asking to be allowed to try coffee for about the thousandth time, and meeting with disapproval still, while Kili nibbles at his blueberry muffin and Bilbo reads the newspaper he's brought for him.

All in all, there are much worse ways to wake up, honestly.

Alone, with no recollection of when he'd shared breakfast with his nephews for the last time, or even a faint hope of another warm body next to him, for one.

But no, all that is in the past, after all, and they're all better off for it, stronger,  _infinitely_ happier. And if he wishes, wonders sometimes, against every piece of advice he's ever received, that more of his family were here to witness that, then it's only fair those wishes are stored here inside the old stone walls, stuffed in heavy chests alongside piles of old photographs.

 

It's a good thing, at least, that he doesn't have to pretend very much at all today – an official visit of the Prime Minister's house is scheduled for today, and Thorin finds that for once, he can't wait, as Dain and Barbra both know about his and Bilbo's situation, and he won't be forced to play that meticulously crafted charade Miss  Kidzulzân  has created for them out of sentences to always say and sentences to avoid, and ways to smile and topics to steer away from... It will be refreshing.

His enthusiasm is no match for the boys', of course. This whole short holiday has had them incredibly giddy, and the prospect of spending a part of it with Dain's children and their frankly rather astonishing assortment of toys and trampolines and video games and that  _treehouse_ they have,  is just the cherry on top.

But all of that has to wait until after the official appearance in the city – Ered Luin is famous for its eco-friendly environment, and Thorin spends a pleasant morning talking with the head of the Tesla automotive factory, smiling in photos that capture them admiring the new freely available chargers for the sleek cars  in the city. He brings Fili with, as he's been doing for a while now, and derives perhaps the most enjoyment from watching him take genuine interest in everything, asking clever questions and more than holding his own in every conversation... Even making a lot of very important people laugh when he vows to replace at least some of the Mercedeses and Bentleys in the Palace flotilla with the more environment-friendly Teslas the next time Thorin is out of the country.

As smart and collected as he is in public, Fili wastes no time dashing after his brother and the Kirikhbuzun children the second they finally get to Dain's house, leaving Thorin  with nothing else to do but find his cousin.

“ Your man is with Barbra in the garden,” Dain chooses a very straightforward way of greeting him, paying absolutely no mind to Thorin twitching in a very reflexive manner, eyes scanning the drawing room they're seated in for anyone who might be listening in, and  _ making conclusions. People will always jump to conclusions before you even know you gave them the opportunity, _ he hears Miss Galadriel's voice in his head, loud and clear.  _ Like a fire spreading. _

“My wife has no green thumb to speak of, bless her, but she's been hiring people for it for ages – you'd better watch out, or she'll snatch Bilbo for herself in no time. Apparently he has quite the knack for gardening, did you know?”

“Yes,” Thorin smiles. Across the room, Dwalin gives him a reassuring nod, as if he's been reading his mind,  _ nothing to be worried about here, and if there were, I'd pounce on it. _ Thorin relaxes a bit.

Dain stares at him pensively for a moment, but Thorin knows he needn't ask – his cousin isn't known for keeping his mouth  _ shut _ about what he's thinking, after all.

“I know what I'm doing,” he still gives him a nudge.

“Oh, I don't doubt that in the slightest,” Dain grins.

“Then what is it?”

“Why does  _ it _ have to be anything? I was jus t watching .”

“ And?” Thorin inclines his head.

“You look good.”

“Why thank you,” Thorin huffs a laugh, “you're not looking half bad yourself. Have you finally managed to convince the media you don't dye your hair?”

“No,” Dain sniggers, raking his fingers through his fiery mane, “but you know what I mean. This... suits you.”

“Yes, I believe this holiday was long overdue.”

“ Yeah, you know, that, and someone by your side. It's true, don't look at me like that!” he sputters at Thorin's grin spreading, “you look... healthy. Healthier. Barbra thinks you're  _ glowing _ anytime you're on the TV, but that's probably just her eyesight getting worse. But yes, you know... You know you have our full support regarding this... him. All of it. It looks like things are finally going our way for once.”

“Mahal's graces,” Thorin laughs out loud now, “you're getting sentimental in your old age.”

“Just calling it as I see it,” Dain shrugs, and beyond all the amusement over his uncharacteristic display of emotions, Thorin is secretly very touched, of course.

He doesn't get much time to mull over all of that, though, because a press conference is in order – those are always more of a public gathering here in Ered Luin, and it is not often that the media get the King  _ and _ the Prime Minister in the same room, or in this case, the same  City Hall terrace . Yes, they like to do everything outdoors here in the mountains, even more so than the rest of the country, and the new E nvironmental Preservation Act Dain's party has put forth certainly warrants a spectacle.

Quite predictably, the topic soon becomes less preserving the nature, and more Thorin's personal life, but he's been trained well, and deflects some questions, while answering others quickly and without going into much detail. He knows Miss  Kidzulzân  is watching somewhere, and he thinks she'd be proud. But of course, he's more thrilled with the idea of  _ Bilbo _ watching from someplace nearby, and he mostly talks to him when he speaks about  making sure that nobody gets to miss their chance at a happy fulfilled life, just like Thorin thought he might, until recently.

“Was I surprised? I don't remember exactly, because I was about sixteen when I found out, but I think it involved snorting a wine spritzer out my nose and spraying at least one member of the royal family, so yes, I think that constitutes as  _ surprise. _ ”

Thorin laughs alongside everyone else – Dain has always had a very straightforward way with words, bless him. All in all, this is quickly turning into a talk show, but that's what you get for inviting Theo Gabilaz all the way out here to host the event. But for all his controversies, and his propensity for purple suits, and his laughter loud enough to fell weaker trees, Thorin likes the man. Feels like he can trust him – they haven't brought him up to speed yet on  _ who exactly  _ it is that has  _ set that lively twinkle we haven't seen since the days of Princess Dis in His Majesty's eyes, _ but when the truth does come out, Thorin knows Gabilaz will find the right words to cover the news and make people accept it simply by making them laugh, in turn making everything easier for Thorin and Bilbo and the rest.

But for now, he trains his quick wit and response time by dodging Theo's mildly invasive questions, even though they both know he won't be getting any satisfactory answers any time soon.

But the other journalists aren't quite as willing to play along, which becomes obvious when the time for their questions finally rolls around. Dain receives a number of sensible ones, of course, and they take turns answering those swiftly and effortlessly enough, but every crowd contains a couple of sensation-seekers, and Thorin can spot them from a mile away, especially these days.

“Does Your Majesty plan on addressing the rumors regarding the new marriage equality pact?” asks a very unassuming-looking woman in the second row, whose visage certainly doesn't even hint at the zest in her voice, “it has become a sort of package deal, with the Environmental Protection Act and the new education reform – some are concerned the Parliament might be overwhelmed, and stalling on important issues such as actually putting forth the results on the referendum on the Greek debt and relinquishing parts of the Mithril Reserve, and that marriage equality pact is nothing but a taunting temporary offer, pre-approved to be shut down.”

Dain opens his mouth, but Thorin takes over this one effortlessly enough: “I'm quite sure that if the Parliament ever feels _overwhelmed,_ I will be the first one to know about it. The road to innovation has never been paved with _having a lot of time on one's hands,_ wouldn't you agree? And as for the marriage equality pact, I can assure you that no one wishes for that to come into being more than me – but I would think that that is rather obvious.”

Scattered laughter, and a jilted-looking journalists – Thorin's favorite combination when it comes to these things. He shoots Gabilaz a short glance, _let's not turn this into an interrogation crossfire,_ and the man spares a short nod amidst all his grinning.

“Speaking of overwhelmed,” the next chosen journalist starts broadly, “is it true that Your Majesty has canceled a meeting with the Ukrainian cultural attache in favor of this... vacation?”

“I don't think the King's schedule is the subject of this conference,” Gabilaz butts in smoothly, giving Thorin just a sliver of time to collect his thoughts.

“Agreed, but current events are, and the Crown has yet to take any official stand on the situation in Ukraine. Not disputing the need for it, but the timing of this holiday is a bit peculiar, to say the least.”

“An actual question at the end of that rant would be nice, Mister Lukhud,” Gabilaz does his thing without a hitch, and after exchanging a vague look with Dain, Thorin hides behind his stony facade for a moment.

“Very well then, here is my question,” the man named Lukhud says clearly, glaring at Thorin with a calm steadiness he is somewhat unused to (almost as unused as he is to the man's face, he's going to have to get people to find out more about him), “is it at all possible that the overabundance of new acts and legislatures and _pacts_ is in direct contrast with His Majesty's endurance? With so very many personal adjustments Your Majesty has no doubt had to make, is it safe to assume that you are simply just exhausted, and if so, should we be worried about it affecting the country's overall performance?”

 

His personal phone rings the second he is whisked off that blasted terrace and away from cameras and _people,_ and he simply sighs tiredly, picking up without a word.

“I thought you handled that very well,” Galadriel says icily.

“Save it.”

“I told you things like these would start happening more and more often now, and I can't always be there to mouth the correct answers at you from behind the cameras. Your Majesty.”

“Charming as ever, Miss Kidzulzân. Can we talk about this after I come back?” Thorin grumbles, and can practically _hear_ her rolling her eyes.

“I think that would be wise. _One_ public appearance I can't attend. _One._ You _promised_ this one would be strictly politics.”

“Yes, and would you mind reminding me who thought it was _a brilliant idea_ to have Theo Gabilaz host it?” Thorin sneers, letting his people steer him through the City Hall to his car, his legs suddenly barely carrying him. The truth is, he _is_ exhausted – and how is he only coming to realize this now?

“Obviously I made the mistake of assuming he wouldn't _vamp_ in broad daylight,” Galadriel sounds pensive, like she's already coming up with a dozen possible strategies while they're talking – right now, Thorin hates this invaluable skill of hers.

“Obviously. I'll talk to you next week.”

“Yes. Go back to the lodge. Get some sleep, drink some wine. I'll contain this.”

“Glorious,” Thorin hisses, and hangs up, head thumping against the leather of the car seat, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. It turns out there _is_ a limit to how many times one can talk about _putting the country's needs first_ without wanting to start punching people in the face.

The car speeds up the curving roads to the mountain retreat, and Thorin can't wait to hide inside, drink the aforementioned wine, and watch one of the boys' favorite animated movies, and _not_ the news or anything even remotely reminding him of real life.

The house is utterly quiet when they arrive, but Thorin thinks nothing of it – they'd predicted that the boys would have a difficult time saying goodbye to Dain's children, but a small, entirely selfish part of him wishes Bilbo had decided to disregard his duties just this once and come back early.

Feeling far too drowsy for how early it is yet, Thorin changes out of his suit, scours the kitchen for something to eat, promptly switches off the TV when the first thing that it blares at him is a news broadcast featuring his own face, and decides for quiet music on his mother's old gramophone instead, slouching on the sofa and closing his eyes... And just when he's about to get back up again and inquire with Dwalin about the Princes' and Bilbo's whereabouts, two warm hands settle on his shoulders, and soft lips press a kiss to his temple, and he melts.

“Hello,” he sighs, and Bilbo starts rubbing the tense muscles of his neck and shoulders in soothing motions, the strain dissolving almost miraculously.

“Are you alright?”

“Mmm,” Thorin mumbles feebly, “I will be. I don't hear shrieking. Where are the boys?”

“Oh, right, excellent news, that,” he can sense Bilbo's smile as he noses at the nape of his neck, “the Kirikhbuzuns have offered to let them stay overnight.”

Thorin's eyes flutter open.

“Oh?”

“Yes. Barbra thought we could use the break, and I wasn't going to say no to that. I've already arranged everything, we're picking them up tomorrow after lunch – well, not we per se, but that's the beauty of it. They were very excited.”

“Really?” Thorin murmurs, somewhat incapable of sounding anything but slightly groggy under Bilbo's attention, “they didn't mind?”

“ _Mind?_ ” Bilbo chuckles, a pleasant tingle tickling at the back of Thorin's neck, “they'll get to stay up late, watch and play whatever they want, _and_ I think there was talk of pancakes right before I left. I think they'll be just fine.”

“Well, that's...”

“You are allowed to say it.”

“Wonderful,” Thorin smiles, letting his head fall back, and Bilbo's fingers tangle in his hair, scratching and massaging his scalp for a blissful moment, leaving behind an unpleasant cold when they disappear – but not for long, and it is destined to return in spades, as Bilbo walks around to the front of the couch and climbs to sit in Thorin's lap astride without much ado.

“I'm sorry you got asked such awful questions today,” he murmurs, thumbs drawing circles behind Thorin's ears now, and he's half tempted to just let him speak and let the sound of his voice lull him to sleep.

“It's alright. Miss Kidzulzân thought I'd _handled it well._ ”

“Did she now.”

“Mmyes.”

“Well, I thought so too. Still, how people can even _assume_ you're not giving this a hundred percent is beyond me.”

“Maybe it was just a poorly constructed piece of advice, you know,” Thorin sighs, “don't exhaust yourself, the country needs you. Something like that.”

Bilbo is too quiet for too long, and so Thorin forces himself to open his eyes and look at him – he appears vaguely displeased, if anything.

“It's alright,” Thorin repeats, “they have a right to worry. I _have_ made my personal business the country's business, after all.”

A worried line creases Bilbo's forehead at that, but he says nothing, simply strokes Thorin's cheek with his thumb before leaning in and kissing him very softly.

“Let me take care of you,” he murmurs, accentuating that suggestion with yet more kissing, whispering in between light pecks all over Thorin's face, his cheeks, his forehead, even the corners of his eyes, before returning to his mouth, “I'll make something really good to eat, and we'll drink some wine, and watch something nice, and maybe draw ourselves a bath, what do you say.”

“Hmm,” is the only even remotely eloquent sound Thorin can produce, digging his fingers into Bilbo's thighs, perhaps a bit unwittingly.

“Well,” Bilbo chuckles, “looks like I should _take care of you_ before we do all that, then.”

Ever the supporter of the good old saying 'actions are better than words', Bilbo wastes no time explaining, simply captures Thorin in yet another kiss, deeper now, and the look he casts him afterward speaks for all.

Before Thorin knows it, Bilbo's already on his knees, and Thorin's own legs part entirely of their own volition as he undoes his belt buckle, slow and gentle but entirely determined.

“Have you been planning this all along?” Thorin asks somewhat feebly, and Bilbo merely chuckles, concentrating fully on the task ahead.

Transfixed by the sight, Thorin reaches out and cradles his cheek to get his attention, then carefully takes off his glasses, and Bilbo's expression changes to a very vulnerable one for the most fleeting moment. He looks as if he might say something, but then seems to decide against it – and before long, all questions Thorin might have had are completely and utterly forgotten anyway.

 

Needless to say, they do end up taking that bath, and if Thorin was a bit drowsy before, he all but melts away and dissipates from sheer bliss now, nestled in between Bilbo's legs, back to chest, Bilbo's fingers in his hair _yet again,_ this time spreading shampoo foam evenly and gently – he knows all the ways to make him de-stress, and utilizes them perfectly that night, with no one else in the house (it's subtle, but Dwalin has at some point moved all his men to patrol outside, and he himself announced something about a round of cards with Beorn in his hut) and seemingly all the time in the world on their hands, and all that Thorin can do is let him.

Let him pepper his back and shoulders with wet little kisses, let him order him around just a little bit after the water has almost cooled off around them, let him lead him back downstairs into the kitchen hand in hand... Let him make a very late dinner and make Thorin himself do nothing but watch. Let him pour them a bit of wine to go with the pasta, and toast to evenings alone.

Watch him instead of the movie they've picked out, and laugh at his very determined frown of absolute concentration as he attempts his very best to translate everything from Khuzdul to his mother tongue, and murmur the correct words into the nape of his neck, and kiss him soft and long when keeping up with the speedy dialogues of one of the country's most beloved comedies proves futile.

“I worry about you,” Bilbo sighs, having changed their position into one that allows for slouching on the couch in a loose, warm embrace, and Thorin rests his chin atop his head, staring at the TV blankly for a moment.

“Well, the feeling is mutual.”

“Hush, you, you know what I mean. I'm worried that you've...”

“Yes?”

“They were right, in a way, weren't they?” Bilbo says, Thorin picking up on a hint of tension, “the journalists I mean. You _are_ overwhelmed.”

“How do you mean?”

“What do you _mean_ how do I mean?” Bilbo half chuckles, half sputters, “on top of having a country to run, you have all these additional duties, you're expected to _share opinions,_ and be a walking dictionary of the LGBTQ community, and, and cut ribbons in front of youth centers and take _stands_ on things, and all the while you're supposed to look like you're having the time of your life, I mean...”

“Bilbo...”

“I just think it's unreasonable for people to expect you to be-”

“Bilbo,” Thorin succeeds at interrupting him the second time, softly but firmly, and when all that Bilbo does is let out a somewhat shuddering sigh, he cradles him closer, pressing a kiss on top of his head, before disentangling them just enough so that they can look into each other's eyes.

“What you've just described,” Thorin tells him with the faintest smile, “is in a King's job description, I'm afraid. It's what I've been doing for the past decade.”

“Yes, but-”

“I know. I know what you mean,” Thorin grins, resisting the urge to kiss that adorable pout off Bilbo's face, “but there's one thing you should understand – I _am_ having the time of my life.”

Bilbo looks doubtful at best, and so Thorin sighs, selecting one of his more serious professional faces, and continues: “If it hadn't been for you, I wouldn't be where I am today. If it hadn't been for you, I would probably still be _in the closet,_ as you say. I quite enjoy this new part of my duties, you know, because I have a very clear vision of why I do all of them. A very clear reason.”

Bilbo frowns.

“That would be _you._ ”

Bilbo opens his mouth to protest, but Thorin doesn't let him.

“I get to come home to you at the end of the day. I get to look forward to a future in which I don't have to tiptoe around questions about my _potentially non-existent personal life._ I get to imagine what it will be like, you know, holding your hand in front of people, and making it _blatantly_ obvious just how much you mean to me.”

Bilbo is on the verge of complaining, but clamps his mouth shut again, looking incredibly cross, but also, if Thorin is any judge of it, somewhat touched.

“That's what I do all this for. _You._ Because you make me happy. Because you _are_ one of a kind. Because-”

“Alright, alright, _alright,_ you,” Bilbo interrupts him, waving his hand fussily as if to dismiss everything Thorin has just said, “you're being ridiculous.”

“I'm fine with that,” Thorin shrugs almost playfully, and Bilbo scowls at him, before leaning in for a kiss.

“You know... I mean, you do know I... feel the same way, yes?” he breathes out against his lips somewhat unsteadily.

“I do.”

“Hmm. If you had said no, I was prepared to build a compelling argument.”

“Oh?”

“Yes. Possibly involving _some_ physical coercion?”

“Oh. Well, in that case, no, I have no idea how you feel, please explain it to me in excruciating detail.”

 

Not so very long ago, less than a year in fact, they were stumbling through this house trying to find their way to one another, or tiptoeing around each other, or trying to close the distance between one another in any way possible. They had been clueless, and far too reckless for their own good, but all that stress, all that tension that seemed to seep from every wall, the undercurrent of fear and uncertainty, that's all in the past now – in fact, Thorin barely remembers any of it now, and only recalls their first stay here for what it gave him.

Kissing Bilbo for the first time in front of that window outside of Dis' old room, and kissing Bilbo _again_ in the kitchen, and again and again under the stairs leading up to the attic... Those memories are the tangible ones, and those are the ones that reappear now, hurrying into the seclusion of their bedroom on somewhat unsteady feet, giggling like teenagers and feeling just about as light-headed.

They undress each other with a giddy haste, the knowledge that they are alone for one blissful night only fueling their zeal. The room is warm, the sheets soft, and Bilbo's embrace inviting, and all of Thorin's distress and worries are a thing of the past. He lets himself be guided and taken care of yet again – Bilbo has never really stopped, come to think of it. And it is that, that comfort and safety, Bilbo making Thorin relinquish control not by forcing him to, but simply by reminding him that he can, that makes him a bit braver as well.

“Do you think... I mean, I was wondering if I could... _you_ could, that is...”

His way with words, though, that could still use some work.

“Yes?” Bilbo cocks an eyebrow, his smiling lips flushed and puffed, and Thorin almost regrets interrupting his downward journey.

“Well, I thought – I mean, we haven't done it yet, it's just... Well. Do you think that this time, I could be...?”

“Oh,” Bilbo's eyes light up in understanding, only to darken in some quiet but deep desire when he _actually_ realizes what Thorin is asking, “oh.”

“I mean, if you don't want to, that's fine, it's been – been a while for me, so...”

“Turn over, would you.”

Bilbo says it casually enough, but Thorin's heart still leaps, and he surprises himself with how quickly he complies, rolling over onto his stomach, cheeks burning. He tries to look back over his shoulder, but before he can succeed at that, Bilbo climbs closer, his breath ghosting over Thorin's earlobe making him shiver, excitement and expectation both.

“Are you sure about this?” Bilbo asks, but leaves no room for a reply, drawing an uneven line of kisses from Thorin's shoulder to his neck, from his shoulder blades down the curve of his spine, fingers digging into Thorin's sides, as if he means to hold him in place.

“Are you sure?” he repeats, getting a far more interesting grip elsewhere, a soft kiss way south of the small of Thorin's back making it impossible for him to respond by anything else than a soft little moan at first.

“Yes,” he exhales shakily, burying his face into the sheets that he bunches up under his head, “I am, yes...”

“Well then,” Bilbo sounds quite breathless himself, his almost-touch tickling Thorin where nothing has tickled him in a very long time, “in that case, we'll take it very slow, and you'll tell me if – if it's too much at any point, yes?”

Thorin only replies with a somewhat feeble 'm-hm', squirming to make himself more comfortable, and judging by the quiet but sharp intake of breath from behind him, Bilbo finds that quite pleasing to the eye.

“Hold on,” he murmurs, and Thorin does – it's still an overwhelming concept for him to grasp, relinquishing control, but he doesn't plan on getting into it too much. He trusts Bilbo more than anyone in the world, and he's the only person Thorin would (and already has, in so many different little ways) let take that control from him.

They've been discovering (re-discovering, remembering, re-learning, whatever you want to call it) all of this together, and it's been a pleasantly slow journey – they desire closeness, both of them, simply because they'd gone so long without it before they stumbled into each other's lives, but they're not quite as heedless as they might have been had they fallen in love in their twenties or some such thing. They have little desire to experiment too wildly, and some room for improvement still, but they possess the ability to make one another feel _divine,_ and that's all that matters, really.

Bilbo's certainly demonstrating that vigorously right now, and Thorin can't help but wonder why he hasn't asked before – all he can do now is muffle his keening moans and the occasional startled yelp in the sheets, and trust Bilbo not to abuse the knowledge of the sounds he can wring out of him in the future.

“Good?” Bilbo asks, his free hand drawing warm, soothing circles into the small of Thorin's back, and Thorin nods frantically, very much incapable of anything else.

_ Take it, _ Thorin wants to tell him,  _take it all from me, all my devotion and my time, my titles and my wealth, and all of my heart, in exchange for the way you unravel me._

_ Take  _ me, Thorin wants to tell him, but doesn't have to, Bilbo doesn't need any prompting at all in that aspect.

They _do_ take it slow, and careful, and interspersed with many a question and from Bilbo and subsequent assurances from Thorin, both less and less coherent as they go, and Thorin doesn't think he's ever felt more exquisite than right now, filled and claimed, deconstructed on a molecular level only to be put back together again with the utmost care, stripped of everything superficial that might have ever defined him, everything but his trust and adoration for Bilbo, and the pleasure that that brings.

Bilbo's breath is hot at the back of his neck, and then so very close to his ear when their bodies lay flush together, and Thorin is granted the privilege to hear each and every one of Bilbo's quiet gasps as he rolls his hips into him, timid moans as if he's holding back, as he's worried about something, letting go as well.

Thorin couldn't move very much even if he really tried, but he makes it his mission to let Bilbo know that that's how he likes it, that it's exactly what he needs, will always need, after days, weeks, months and years of always watching his own tiniest movements, planning every motion and assessing every tick. 

Maybe it's what he's needed all this time, for someone to come and not only scale his walls, but knock them down from the inside; for someone to be unafraid when faced with all that he's had to be, _nerves of steel, stone cold resolve, features like chiseled marble._ For someone to look behind that, and _see._

For someone to touch him in a way that makes him forget he ever had to be cold, and impenetrable, and tough, inside and out.

“Bilbo,” he exhales his name, and repeats it like a mantra, _Bilbo Bilbo Bilbo,_ thanking him for all that he's given and asking for more at the same time, and for those few breathless, intense moments, he can make himself believe that Bilbo knows, knows just how much he means to him.

_ You saved me, _ each of Thorin's whimpers say.

_ You've made me feel alive again, _ his huffed breaths singe into the sheets.

_ You've won my heart for yourself, then, now, and for good, and I didn't even think twice about handing it over. _

 

“Was that alright?” Bilbo asks after their breathing has calmed down, and they've moved so that they can look into each other's eyes again, and Thorin can't but laugh.

“Yes,” he sighs, latching tighter onto him, listening to his heartbeat as Bilbo cards his hands through his hair, “yes, that was... very much alright.”

“Alright then,” Bilbo chuckles, sleepiness already creeping into his voice, “glad to hear we're on the same page.”

Their quiet conjoined laughter is a pleasant rumble in Thorin's ear, and he nuzzles Bilbo's chest with his nose, making him yelp and giggle, before sighing contentedly and announcing, after some silent consideration, if Thorin is guessing correctly: “Who would have thought?”

_ Who would have thought?  _ Who would have thought, indeed.

If someone had suggested two years ago that Thorin still ha d even a remote shot at being this happy, he'd probably laugh in their faces. If they told him he'd be sleeping in and waking up with the love of his life holding him close like he wants to keep him safe from all harm, he'd laugh some more, and then bring up the fact that he c ouldn 't  _afford_ any of that.

Two years ago, give or take, Thorin hoped for very little that didn't have to do with politics, and successful election periods,  and fruitful meetings, and dared wish for even less than that. Dared desire nothing.

Two years ago, the idea of eating homemade pancakes for breakfast and kissing raspberry jam off someone's lips seemed laughable, simply because it was something that  _other people_ did. Not him, never him, he wasn't  _allowed_ that, would never have time for it, and that was fine, that was just the way things were.

Two years ago, Thorin didn't know Bilbo was coming his way, and thought happiness was a thing  _other people_ experienced.

Now, two years later, his happiness is dancing around the kitchen in one of his old t-shirts and boxers, and presses a mug of coffee into his hands and a kiss to his cheek,  and Thorin wants to sit himself from two years ago down and  implore him to never  _presume_ anything ever again.

Who knows where they'll be two years from  _now,_ anyway. All that matters – and Thorin is acutely aware that his past self would glare at him very dryly at these words – is that they're together.

-

 

Doors are locked, and calls put on hold, and tea is poured – they meet like clockwork, just another cog in the Hurmulkezer machine that has been polished into perfection and ticks and turns with meticulous regularity. 

“Any improvement, do you think?” Balin draws on his pipe thoughtfully.

“If anything, I think we might have made it even _worse,_ ” Deidre sighs, scribbling something into her planner, a dreadfully intimidating leather-bound thing filled with chicken scratch only she can decipher.

“I think our first mistake might have been assuming that the holiday would _tire them out_ in any conceivable way,” Balin sighs.

“Fresh as daisies, both of them,” Deidre nods solemnly, “just yesterday, I caught them running off to the kitchens to make _pancakes_ in the middle of the day, for crying out loud.”

“I suppose that's just what people do after spending a lifetime looking for each other,” Balin declares uncharacteristically sentimentally, and Deidre sizes him up and down, before agreeing carefully: “I guess you're right. Still, has your brother explained our newest brilliant invention to them?”

“Oh, Code Blue?” Balin smiles with much satisfaction, “yes, that is in fact official as of this morning. Bilbo laughed _way_ too much when we explained it to him, I must say. Asked us if we'd picked the color for any particular reason.”

“Did we...? Oh, doesn't matter,” Deidre waves her hand, “so it's once every two weeks...?”

“Once a week, for both of them, up to twenty minutes of _personal errands._ Dwalin and I figured we'd eventually get them to once every two weeks, but you know what they say, can't ask a glutton to forget about lunch.”

“Fitting,” Deidre remarks dryly, and they spend a quiet moment trying _not_ to think of the many practical implications of that saying.

“Anyway, speaking of my brother,” Balin starts broadly, and Deidre snorts into her tea at that abrupt change of topic.

“Yes?”

“I don't know if you're aware, but he met with Galadriel Kidzulzân in the city early yesterday morning.”

“And... that is remarkable why?” Deidre peers at him, sipping on her tea.

“He took great precautions to avoid anyone finding out, and my sources say so did Miss Kidzulzân.”

“Well, obviously they weren't very successful,” Deidre cocks an eyebrow.

“We found out more or less by accident,” Balin admits somewhat sourly, “I don't even know what they talked about. But I'm looking into it.”

“The King's PR maven and our Head of Security?” Deidre scratches her chin thoughtfully, “why wouldn't he tell us what's going on?”

“No idea.”

“Oh... oh! Maybe they're having an affair!” Deidre's eyes light up with fires not as much long forgotten, as never really extinguished, and Balin chokes on pipe smoke a little bit.

“I highly doubt that,” he replies tightly.

“Just because _you_ have never had an interest in these things, doesn't mean your brother can't be enjoying himself, you know,” Deidre wags her finger at him, and he rolls his eyes.

“I really don't think that that's what it was. They met in the morning, in a busy cafe on one of the city's most frequented boulevards.”

“Romantic!” Deidre exclaims, then decides, “affair.”

“ _Or_ a cleverly concealed meeting about something much more important that an _affair._ ”

“Oh, nothing is unimportant when it comes to _love._ Our King would be very disappointed with your _realistic_ view on things.”

Balin frowns, and puffs on his pipe silently for a moment, before declaring: “Still. I feel like something's off. He usually tells me when it's something concerning the King, and I can't imagine what else him and Miss Galadriel would discuss at this point.”

“Their secret love for each other?” Deidre comments innocently, and when Balin continues to glare, she backtracks, “alright, alright, I can see that this worries you. Is there anything you think might be going on behind our backs?”

It's a notion so preposterous even Balin has to laugh shortly at it – between the two of them, the net of informants and casual observers and simply just people who happen to be at the right place at the right time, is, plainly put, tighter than a nun's knickers. Dwalin's men are, of course, an intrinsic part of it, but Balin has had no luck with them this time, either.

“His people just know he had _an errand_ to run, that was all I could get out of them.”

“An errand, hmm,” Deidre ponders on that, “well, I could... alright, I can talk to Sandra, she acts as Miss Kidzulzân's assistant most often when she's here at the Palace. And I think I know someone who knows her _actual_ assistant. I'll look into it.”

“Be gentle,” Balin says, “it must be something particularly delicate, if Dwalin's going to such lengths to keep it from me.”

“As delicate as _a budding romance,_ perhaps?”

“Oh,, would you _stop it?_ You've been watching too much _Barazinbar Id-sh_ _â_ _kal_ again.”

“Excuse me, _Barazinbar Id-sh_ _â_ _kal_ is a work of art! Just last week, Godrik asked Annalisa to marry him, but forgot to check the date on his divorce papers, and his sister called the house and-”

“Oh, _spare me,_ I'm begging you.”

“You're just saying that because you never spent a glorious afternoon marathoning the third series. It's the best one!”

“I think I'll manage without for the rest of my life, thank you.”

“ _When the sun rises over the red sho-ore..._ ”

“Alright, this meeting is _over,_ right now.”

But they laugh together still, and Balin can feel himself relaxing, and Deidre in turn can sense perfectly that this is far from over – but if there is one thought they share, it's the conviction, that between the two of them, they really _can_ do anything, and if there truly is something more to Dwalin's mysterious meeting with Galadriel Kidzulzân, if there's even the faintest hint of a threat brewing on the horizon, then it will first have to go through the conjoined wrath of Balin and Deidre, before it gets anywhere near the family.

-

 

Several flights of stairs and dozens of doors away, a phone rings. He glares at it for a moment, calculating the amount of effort it will take to answer it right now, but decides not to postpone the inevitable, after all.

“So?” he sighs, sending his men out of the room with one miniscule gesture, “what do you think?”

“I think there's hardly anything to be worried about _right now,_ ” she says, but there isn't a hint of positivity in it.

“But there will be,” he offers.

“There will be,” she agrees, “if we let this get out of hand.”

“And I suppose you have _some_ plan how to avoid that?”

“Yes, and I'll share it if you share yours,” she chuckles, and he can _hear_ the confident smirk.

“Public image is your area of expertise,” he notes sourly.

“You're assuming devastating the Crown's public image is the worst thing that can happen right now,” she reminds him gently, and he groans, half agreement and half exasperation, and pinches the bridge of his nose.

“Still, let's not get ahead of ourselves,” he suggests, “we'll have a whole lot of other issues to deal with once the relationship becomes public knowledge.”

“Yes, and I believe that strictly practically speaking, that will also be the time _someone else_ decides to give us _their_ issues to deal with.”

“So you're suggesting they'll bide their time until then?” he wonders, already knowing the answer.

“ _They_ might. We shouldn't.”

“Hmm.”

“Don't despair. We'll come up with a solution soon enough. But we shouldn't keep this only between us for much longer. I've got... acquaintances I might be able to bring in. How's the coverage at the Palace?”

“My brother suspects. I'll bring him up to speed eventually, and a number of other people alongside him.”

“You do that, yes.”

She sounds pleased.

“Miss Kidzulzân.”

“Yes, Mr Fundinsson?”

“We've done this once before. Kept things from the King. I can't imagine he'll be too thrilled about it.”

“I can't imagine he'd be too thrilled at the prospect of his one chance at a happy retirement being nipped in the bud, either,” she says smoothly, “let's take it one step at a time, yes? Would you characterize the threat as an immediate one?”

“...No,” he agrees reluctantly.

“And neither would I. Right now, our biggest worries include the King misspeaking at a press conference, or missing a meeting or two because of a _personal errand,_ I understand the official term is now. Let's keep it that way, shall we?”

“Yes, let's,” he sighs.

“Alright then. I imagine we'll speak soon enough. Thank you for your information, and do keep me in the loop, so to speak, but no brash decisions, are we understood?”

“Understood,” he grumbles.

“Very well. Have a lovely afternoon, Mr Fundinsson.”

“And you, Miss Kidzulzân.”

 

He sits quietly for a moment after _that_ is concluded, and doesn't feel in the least like getting back to work, if he's to be completely honest with himself. A few lackluster clicks, and he brings up the documents he's been glaring at with bitter dedication for days now – over the years, he's more than perfected the art of telling the difference between an actual threat and just an annoyance, but he's also learned that the time to start getting _really_ worried is when the two are combined.

Dwalin exhales raggedly and drags his hands down his face to rub some life back into it, and on the screen, Duke Thranduil of Zars’dashûn smiles his poster-bright, glittering smile, as if he's been preparing to ruin Dwalin's afternoons his whole life.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know guys, like halfway through this chapter I was like 'this is still not long enough will this ever be long enough' and ended up with 11k... I'm sensing a pattern there but eh. Anyway, this is awfully schmoopy, so I started mentioning some background stuff just to balance it out. There won't be any sudden cheap drama crammed into the last two chapters, I can promise you as much, but I MIGHT leave a lot of stuff hanging as a result, which in turn means I am far from done with this AU... Draw your own conclusions I suppose :D


	5. Chapter 5

In Bofur's opinion, there isn't a sweeter sound in this world than the reassuring, deep rumble of a car engine turning off after a very, very long day. On the _other side_ of that spectrum are the various cacophonies of everyday traffic, honking, brakes squealing, the occasional swear, and every hitch and cough a vehicle in trouble might make – he's spent years learning to recognize every single one of those little noises, and it comes as second nature to him.

Some think his job monotone, ask him what purpose there is to it, but he's been at this too long to care about doubters, really – he adores cars, has adored tinkering with them ever since his hands could reach the steering wheel, and besides, do people even realize how much information he has inadvertently happened upon over the years, driving _the actual royal family_?

He remembers the first time he drove the Old King, filling in for his own father who was His Majesty's designed driver and had fallen terribly sick, and how his hands shook, and how afraid he was to look in the rear view mirror – and how, when he finally did and actually met with the stern glare of King Thror himself, he almost swallowed his tongue. Good times.

Crown Prince Thrain would talk about cars with Bofur, which his youngest, Frerin, inherited as well, and Bofur remembers fondly that one time he almost got fired for letting His Highness drive one of the fancier Mercedeses. 

Princess Dis had been his favorite way back when before everything went awry – she'd laugh, and chat with him utterly effortlessly, and bought him pipeweed or a bottle of something truly delicious every time he helped her sneak out of the Palace and drove her around the city, in pursuit of god knows what.

Thorin – His Majesty – cracked the occasional smile when she was still around, but not so much... afterward.

Bofur was there when he found out about the cave-in, drove him to the site, frantically making phone calls, pale but fierce, refusing to believe it.

Drove him to and from the funeral, stricken and shrunken in the backseat, tears in both their eyes that day.

Has been driving him around for years, the two of them gradually developing a comfortable, quiet sort of... if not friendship, then at least companionship. In his own reserved way, His Majesty would complain, or ask Bofur's opinions on things, or even make the occasional joke, and sometimes, it looked like he didn't really feel like exiting the car at all. In a way, Bofur thinks even now, it's the one secluded bit of space, away from cameras and inquiries and duties, that the King can hide in, and be at peace.

So many times, Bofur has seen His Majesty drop his polite, happy, collected facades the second he shut that door behind him, and all those things he's privy to, knowing what royals look like truly angry, or what they say on the phone to their loved ones when no one is listening, or the sense of humor they have when they don't have to watch their words in front of people, that's what makes this job special.

“Oh my god, I feel so silly. Is this really necessary?”

And then there's Bilbo.

“I'm afraid so,” Bofur chuckles, glancing at his friend, “His Majesty's orders.”

“Yes, well,” Bilbo grumbles, squirming in the expensive leather, “ _His Majesty_ failed to consider _my opinion_ when he set this up, you know. Christ. This car is too bloody _fancy_ for me, Bofur. No offense.”

“None taken,” Bofur grins, “come on, it's a nice ride, right?”

“I thought _inconspicuous_ was what we were aiming for today, but I digress.”

“I took off the flags,” Bofur offers cheerily, and Bilbo rolls his eyes, but a grin of his own is tugging at the corners of his mouth, no matter how slightly stressed out it might be.

“Thank you, the evening is saved, truly. Let's just go, please.”

He scowls at his own reflection in the tinted window, trying to adjust his bowtie, but stops in the midst of it, plastering one hand over his mouth.

“Oh my god,” he groans, “I'm becoming one of those people.”

“What people?” Bofur snickers, sticking the key into the ignition.

“You know. People,” Bilbo sighs truly dramatically, slumping into his seat, “people who order their personal drivers around. And, god, are _driven everywhere_ in the first place. Oh, this is awful.”

“Relax,” Bofur is laughing now, “it comes with the territory.”

Bilbo casts him a thoroughly haggard look, but then he sighs some more, taking his glasses off and polishing them, in a cute little nervous tick of his.

“I suppose you're right. I should be getting used to this.”

“You should. All I can promise is, I'll never call you Your Highness.”

And that, at long last, makes Bilbo laugh as well.

“Thank _God._ Thank you, honestly.”

“You're welcome. Ready to go?”

Bilbo scrunches up his nose, another thing he probably doesn't realize the adorable factor of, and then he sighs.

“As ready as I can be, _having absolutely no idea where we're going._ I suppose you won't tell me anything, either?”

“Sorry,” Bofur smirks, “His-”

“His Majesty's orders, yeah,” Bilbo groans, “him and I are going to have a talk about all of this at some point. It's not good for my heart.”

“Oh, I'm sure you'll like it,” Bofur supplies lightly, and Bilbo frowns at him inquisitively, but it's followed by a small, pleased smile to himself, and a fondly exasperated head shake, and Bofur thinks, _you're exactly the thing this country needed, and you don't even know it._

 

He remembers it as if it were yesterday, the first time he met Bilbo, driving him, wide-eyed and flustered, from the airport to the Palace – none of them could have possibly predicted all that that would lead to.

He also remembers driving him the other way around, almost exactly a year later, and thinking he could have, should have, _they all should have,_ done more to somehow make him stay. In that short time, Bilbo had gone from a bit of a wild card, to an indispensable part of the Hurmulkezer's everyday existence, and _everybody_ knew he wasn't only supposed to stay for his excellent track record with the Princes, or his impeccable scheduling skills.

It's a bit of a fairy tale, Bofur thinks, everything that's been happening – none more than him and Bombur, and a handful others, know exactly what Bilbo went through, what lengths he was willing to go to for the royal family, and even then, no one is privy to _all_ the details.

One thing _is_ certain, though – this is where Bilbo belongs. He is absolutely the most unlikely candidate for the fabled 'commoner to royalty' role, which is precisely why he's so charming. It's a privilege being his friend, and a great deal of fun driving him around, and somehow, Bofur isn't in the least worried about him handling his upcoming duties. Probably much less so than Bilbo himself, in fact.

He's fussy, and grouchy, and _hilarious_ in what Bofur understands is a truly British fashion, and people are going to _love him_ – he's adored already, and Bofur knows for a fact that he adores Erebor right back, not only for its royal family, but simply because he's found himself here.

_Abhur ibhiri mudt_ _û_ _id-akm_ _âth_ , Ereboreans call it – learned to listen to the song of his heartbeat, and helped the monarch of the country himself learn the same.

 

It's a new and exciting age the two of them are ushering in, and it's difficult to imagine two people more suited to do it, and withstand the trials ahead side by side. And Bofur is just honored to be there to witness it firsthand, honestly.

Sometimes _even more closely_ than that, he decides with much amusement when the King and Bilbo re-enter the car together later that night, the whole big secret dinner at a secret location shebang a major success, apparently. He rolls up the partition immediately when he hears the quiet laughter and murmured compliments, and thinks, _yeah. You'll be able to handle it, no matter what it turns out to be. And if anything might ever threaten this, the most peaceful, joyful thing this country has experienced in the past century, probably, well... the rest of us will handle it for you._

 

-

 

“Oh wow, there she is! We thought you were dead! Come, sit!”

She is swept up in a flurry of hugs and pecks on the cheek and all in all overjoyed greetings, and she can feel her stress fading away with each second she spends at that table, a pint of coldAzaghâlkeeping her more than agreeable company.

“So, tell us everything!” her best friend demands, “we thought they were keeping you prisoner at the Hurmulkezer, or something!”

“No, no, come on,” she laughs, “things are just really busy now, I had to take a couple of extra shifts. It's not that bad, honest.”

“Yeah, right, tell that to us, we haven't seen you in ages!”

It's true, and she's going to let them scold her for a bit – it's less effort than explaining that her current job is about the most exciting thing she's ever done. Not to mention the money, hello? If that makes her shallow, whatever. She's working at the damn _royal Palace,_ of all places, so she sure as hell doesn't care.

“Do you have any inside scoop?” they demand.

“ _Inside scoop?_ ” she scoffs at the turn of phrase, “what the hell does that even mean?”

“You know, like, have you seen anyone important pick their nose-”

“Or walked in on an unsolicited blowjob-”

“Oh my _god,_ Markus!”

“What, _what?_ It's a legitimate question!”

“Just because _you_ would enjoy _soliciting_ the King now that you know he'd be into it...”

The table erupts in half laughter, half indignant shouts, and she snorts beer through her nose – this feels good. This feels like _actually_ relaxing. She needed this.

“No, seriously,” Markus, the most devilishly flamboyant of their group, elbows her in the side, “is the King-”

“Still gay?” she sniggers, “oh, yeah.”

“Oh, you _do_ have inside scoop!” his eyes widen about three sizes, “tell me, tell me! Do you know who he's seeing?”

“You are _so_ thirsty, Jesus,” she giggles, “but you're barking up the wrong tree. Sorry to disappoint.”

That gets everyone's attention, pretty easily at that.

“He _is_ seeing someone?”

“Oh my god. Is it someone fancy? Tell us!”

“Come on!”

“No, shut up – are you serious?” she speaks over them with some effort, still half laughing herself, “I can't tell you guys a thing!”

“Yeah, come on guys, she'd probably end up in a body bag at the bottom of the damn river.”

“I like my job too much,” she agrees, “ _and_ I value my life. No, seriously. I couldn't tell you anything, even if I wanted to. My boss _might_ actually kill me, come to think of it.”

She shudders a bit at the thought of Deidre's formidable shout, and gulps down a generous swig of her beer.

“Oh, come o-on,” Markus pleads with her, “I want to know if I have chance! Is he cute? Is he _cuter than me_?! Think about your answer.”

“Well, he's – no, shut up! Shut up, I'm not telling you anything! I'm not getting fired over satisfying your goddamn kinky fantasies, idiot.”

 

But really, she decides a couple of pints (and shots) later, what harm could there be in idle gossip?

 

-

 

The day couldn't be more beautiful, considering his only duty for the morning was to drive the boys to school, and he doesn't have any classes himself until later that afternoon. Technically, he should be spending his time studying... whatever Balin has on the agenda for him today, the proper way to greet people you don't know the title of, probably... But the weather is too amazing, and he's craving fresh air and eating something sweet while he sits in a park somewhere, too much to let the opportunity slip.

Feeling more than grand enough to endure the morning traffic, he drives straight into the center of the city, his tiny Fiat speeding on the riverbank, until he decides to park it at last and take a leisurely stroll. Spring is very definitely taking over now, and he lets the sun warm up every bone in his body – it's sorely needed after the long winter.

He can scarcely believe it's been over a year since he came back – it feels like a lifetime ago, and yet he remembers it as if it were yesterday, because the days, weeks, months flew by at such a frantic pace. And all of it is about to culminate, and the life he's barely gotten used to, will be turned upside down all over again.

It's an odd feeling to say the least, he decides – perhaps this is one of the very last times he's buying a milkshake in his favorite little joint downtown without a single person recognizing him. Miss Kidzulzân has been trying, and Balin has been trying, hell, even Thorin has been trying, to prepare him for it as best they can, for the fact that soon, his face will be all over the place, in the news, on the front pages of newspapers, _on t-shirts, probably,_ as Bofur likes to joke...

He remains largely unfazed, and maybe _that_ should worry him – maybe when it does come, he won't be able to handle it at all.

But honestly, so far, all that he cares about is the vision of Thorin and him finally capable of being together properly. Holding his hand in public and proclaiming that yes, he's perfectly ready to withstand anything they might throw at him, just to prove he's got what it takes to be with Thorin.

They've both come a long way to get here, they deserve this. Nothing is going to take that away.

 

Maybe, he will ponder later, he's brought all of it on himself, with his stupid damn equilibrium, eh.

 

The man approaches him casually enough, and Bilbo even smiles at him, because he's in that particular Ereborean mindset of smiling at random people in the street, and his alarm bells go off woefully late, only when there's a huge goddamn camera pointed in his face.

“Is it true you're in a relationship with the King?” the man blurts out, and the click of the camera, perfectly capturing Bilbo's comically astonished gasp, sets off a ringing in his ears that drowns out all other sounds.

“What...?” he exhales feebly, and the man grins like he's just won the jackpot, his camera clicking a few more times, and before Bilbo can blink, he's actually _running_ away, disappearing around the nearest corner.

Bilbo stands still for a while longer, utterly bewildered and stunned, slurping on his milkshake without really thinking about it, eyes wide and heart tolling like a bell, head spinning, _his entire body_ in fact trying to remind him that this might be _so much more trouble_ than he's currently even capable of realizing.

 

“He said _what?!_ ”

Oh, _so much more_ trouble.

Miss Kidzulzân paces the room, a formidable force of nature on stilettos, and Bilbo scratches his head a tad nervously, glancing at Balin, who has a reassuring, albeit worried look in store for him. Letting her know was the first thing that came to his mind after he managed to regain some sort of concentration, and he drove back to the Palace checking his rear view mirror twice as often.

“It's... I mean, I'm sure it's nothing,” he sighs, “it's not like I really... well, admitted anything, did I?”

“That doesn't matter one bit to these people, believe me,” she says darkly, “all they want is a good story, and they latch onto gossip like wasps to ice-cream. I'm going to make some calls, stop this from going too far. _You_ -” she jabs a perfectly manicured slender finger at Balin, “have a mole in your staff, and I urge you to discover them _yesterday._ ”

“Is that really necessary?” Bilbo counters shakily, “I don't think anyone would-”

“But someone _did,_ ” Galadriel retorts curtly, “there is virtually no other way for this information to slip out, I've made sure of that. I told you not letting everyone sign a confidentiality agreement was a mistake. Someone let their mouth run to the wrong kind of people, and now we have a mess to contain, _weeks_ before the damn Gala.”

Bilbo and Balin exchange yet another harried look, and Bilbo checks his watch, still mentally running through his schedule, and fussing over this far less than he probably should.

“Does Thorin-”

“No! No telling the King,” Miss Kidzulzân interrupts him before he can ask Balin his question, “not until this is contained, no need to worry him needlessly... Yes, hello, Mister Bowman! Yes, it's me. We have a situation...”

Bilbo sighs. _No telling the King_ has worked against him _many times_ before, and he simply won't be able to keep his mouth shut there – with one more look, Balin understands, and whips out his tablet, to examine Thorin's schedule for the day, and miraculously come up with ten minutes of freedom in there, a rather ominous and impressive skill only he possesses.

“What did he – Bilbo!” Miss Kidzulzân recaptures his attention, “do you remember what he looked like? The man who took the picture? Think details, please.”

“Oh, uh...” Bilbo stammers, “he was, uh... tall, Caucasian, dark hair, about my age, um... dark coat, blue I think, and... look, he was pointing a massive camera in my face and then he ran away, I didn't exactly stop to take his measurements, you know.”

She groans something unintelligible, and repeats Bilbo's unhelpful description to Bard on the phone, and Bilbo just sits there and waits, feeling a bit silly, honestly. It's not exactly a pleasant feeling, having your picture taken without your permission, but he's probably going to have to get used to that anyway, right?

“Alright then,” Galadriel declares, ending the call looking disgusted at best, “I'm going to go into town now and burn down a couple of places, scare a bunch of editorial staffs a little bit. We might yet avoid a scandal.”

“A scandal?” Bilbo repeats, amused, “come on, I mean, it's not that big a deal, surely? Even if someone does post some... allegations, people were going to find out in less than three weeks anyway, so what does it matter?”

She glares at him mutely for a moment, like he's possibly the stupidest person she's ever come across, and it certainly isn't difficult to feel that way, faced with her.

“I've been couching you _for a year,_ ” she says slowly, “such joy to see I haven't left any lasting impression. Have you _ever_ been slandered by tabloids?”

“No,” he sighs, resisting the urge to roll his eyes at Balin, like a defiant teenager – like Fili would probably do, in fact.

“Well then you're just going to have to trust me when I say you want to avoid it at all costs. You think they're going to play nice? You think they're going to spin romcom stories about you two and start a betting poll on what you're going to wear to the Gala? No, they're going to _tear you apart,_ stitch by stitch, until you're nothing but a cartoon character for the nation to laugh at, and that'll be _before_ any of the rumors of you being with the King are actually proven true.”

Bilbo gulps.

“I don't-”

“I know you don't. The success of _this entire endeavor_ hinges on us being able to control the flow. Decide what information makes it out, and when. If they get their hands on you now, the consequences will continue to be unpleasant _for ages._ I won't let that happen. You both deserve – we _all_ deserve – for things to go smoothly.”

It's not the first time Bilbo is left speechless and feeling vaguely guilty after one of her lessons, and he merely nods meekly.

“You're right, I'm sorry. Is there anything you want me to do? _Except_ keeping my mouth shut in front of Thorin?”

“Because we both know that's not going to happen?” she says sternly, and when he shrugs, she sighs, resigned, but there's a kindness to it as well. “No. Stay inside the Palace as much as you can today. I will have formulated a strategy by the evening. It would be best if you sent someone else to pick up the Princes-”

Bilbo inclines his head.

“-but since that's clearly not an option, just look out for strange people with cameras. If they do point them at you, you point your middle finger right back at them.”

“Excuse me?” Bilbo laughs.

“Oh, it's a thing,” Miss Kidzulzân smirks, “they can't use the pictures because of the profanity. Or, you know, most of them won't. No, you know what, that might cause even more trouble, you with a pixelated middle finger up on the front page of some tabloid. Just... avoid people altogether today, alright.”

“I'll do my best,” Bilbo sniggers.

 

The rest of the day _does_ occur without an incident, and by the time Bilbo is telling the story to Thorin that night, both of them huddled on the sofa, the TV just pleasant background noise, it's become rather hilarious, more than anything else.

“Honestly, right now I'm just imagining Miss Kidzulzân touring all the tabloids in the city and instilling the fear of God in them,” Bilbo chuckles, squirming a bit for a more comfortable position.

“She's really good at that, isn't she,” Thorin sounds amused, one strong arm wrapping around Bilbo and keeping him from quite literally falling off the sofa, “I don't think I want to imagine where we'd be without her.”

“Probably dodging the media in some lodge in the Alps,” Bilbo supplies casually, and Thorin's laughter is the most pleasant rumble reverberating through his body as well.

“We can still do that, you know.”

“Tempting. I hope you remember that I'm terrible at skiing.”

“It's an acquired skill, you know,” Thorin mumbles into his hair alongside a kiss, “I think Fili would be more than eager to teach you.”

“Oh, yes, he did seem quite disappointed when we didn't go to the mountains for his birthday, my goodness.”

“He did used to ski all the time with his parents,” Thorin says calmly, “couldn't get him off the slopes from the age of about six onward, if I remember correctly.”

“Oh my,” Bilbo murmurs.

He gazes at the TV with unseeing eyes. Among all this rush and excitement and preparations, it's shamefully easy to forget how strangely time passes in Erebor. Lightning fast for some, slower than molasses for others. Three years ago, the boys had just lost their parents, and Bilbo himself was only learning his way towards them, and didn't even bother imagining anything further into the future than submitting his next review of their activities, and finding new and exciting ways of going behind their Uncle's back to improve their lives...

He really should write that book about all this one day.

“How's your father?” he changes the topic somewhat cautiously, but Thorin is half nodding off already, so he doesn't really mind all that much.

“Fine, I think. The new medication is making him moodier, or so I understand.”

“I feel bad, I haven't had the chance to visit him today.”

“It's alright, _ghivashel._ You can go tomorrow. You know, you should tell him that paparazzi story, that'll make him laugh. He absolutely despises them.”

“Sounds good,” Bilbo smirks, turning around and burrowing deeper into Thorin's embrace, greedy for warmth, “maybe he can give me some tips on handling them.”

“Oh, well, I wouldn't go with _those,_ though,” Thorin chuckles, “there was this incident before the revolution, I remember, when Frerin punched a reporter in the face-”

“He did _what?!_ ”

“Long story. Anyway, my father was the only one who supported him in the media, it was hilarious. _Of course I taught my son how to punch, what kind of a father would it make me if I didn't?_ ”

They're both laughing now, the sofa weathering their conjoined weight patiently, although it threatens to give out and knock them off any second now if they're not careful.

“Although, I don't think you have it in you to knock a paparazzi unconscious. I might be wrong,” Thorin muses, and Bilbo scoffs.

“You _have_ seen me skip lunch before, yes?” he points out, “there's no telling what I'll do if I don't get lunch. I'll punch a pap. I'll punch _you._ Hell, I'll go fist to fist with Deidre if I have to, you just watch me.”

“Charming,” Thorin cackles, “I'm sure Deidre could take you, though.”

“You have _that_ little faith in me?” Bilbo exclaims, mock-indignant.

“No, I know Deidre _that_ well. She didn't live to a hundred and fifty with her gentleness, believe me-”

“You are _awful._ ”

“I'm fully aware of that.”

“Playing all tough in front of _me._ I'll tell Deidre what you said, just watch me.”

“You wouldn't.”

“I would. _You,_ I can wrestle no problem.”

“I know that, too,” Thorin smirks, and, well, when Bilbo is finished punching him lightly in the arm for _that_ awful remark, he has no choice but to go and prove himself.

 

-

 

Fili doesn't think people actually _realize_ he's not ten years old anymore. Hell, even when he was ten years old, he was more than capable of doing his homework on his own, _and_ fastening his seat belt, too, so he doesn't understand why Bilbo insists on nagging him about both, often at the same time.

“You _could_ actually let me sit in the front with you every now and then, you know,” he grumbles, dutifully fastening Kili's seat belt as well, and Bilbo actually _laughs_ at him.

“Yes, I'm sure that would go over well. You know it's the most dangerous seat in the entire car-”

“But you're allowed to sit there if you're taller than 140 centimeters, I read about it-”

“That you're _allowed_ to do something, doesn't always mean that you _should_ be doing it, believe me,” Bilbo dismisses him, clearly amused about the entire affair, and Fili fumes at him dramatically, even though Bilbo is paying him no attention whatsoever.

“I'm getting one of those tiny electrical junior car... things, when I'm sixteen, and I'll be driving _myself_ to school, thanks a lot.”

“And I'll be more than happy to let you,” Bilbo chuckles, in a way that suggests something more along the lines of _no way in hell that's ever happening,_ and guides their _current_ car out onto the driveway.

 

It's so easy to get angry at him, but even easier to make up again – two minutes later they're already deep into a heated discussion about different driving styles in different countries, _you're going to have to check in with your Uncle if you want to start racing on a track somewhere,_ and Fili likes it. This. All of this. It's easy – everything is easier with Bilbo around.

Sometimes, he spends so much time thinking about his parents, even though he doesn't want to, even though it hurts so much and he doesn't know how to make it stop, but then Bilbo is always there, and he always seems to have an answer for everything. Always knows exactly what to say to make him feel better, and sometimes knows he shouldn't say anything at all, and Fili barely remembers a time he wasn't there.

Once. Mostly, he doesn't like to remember, really, because the years after... their parents' accident, and before Bilbo came, were horrible, and his memories of that time are still all fuzzy but sharp, like the bad photographs he sometimes takes on purpose, where you can still tell what you're looking at, but it's all smudged, too many shadows. Like a guessing game.

But then from one point on, there was Bilbo, and he's put everything back into focus, has made Thorin the same way he used to be when Fili and Kili's parents were still alive, and Fili doesn't know _how much exactly_ he can do to make things stay this way, but he's definitely going to try his best.

Together, they watch Kili dash off to his school, and Bilbo drives Fili to his right after that, and he's so wrapped up in thinking about stuff that he only notices at the very last minute.

“Wait, hold on, I know that guy!” he exclaims, almost about to exit the car, and Bilbo glances at him, confused.

“You do? Which guy?”

“That one over there,” Fili hisses, leaning forward conspiratorially, pointing at the man – he's standing by the garden fence, unnoticed by the parents and children swarming around the school entrance, and he looks very inconspicuous, but Fili remembers that that's how these people work.

“Who is he?” Bilbo wants to know, and he sounds tense.

“He's a paparazzi,” Fili explains, “but, like, the best one. He's everywhere, and he's not allowed near the Hurmulkezer now I think, because he always crawls into trees and stuff to get the best pictures or something...”

“Oh dear,” Bilbo exhales, “I think Miss Kidzulzân mentioned him, actually. Oh boy. What should we do?”

“It's okay, I don't mind,” Fili grins, “I'll just make funny faces and run inside the school really fast, don't worry.”

“No, no, it's not that,” Bilbo laughs nervously, “I'm worried he isn't here... well, for you.”

“What?” Fili scoffs, “who else? Oh... you?”

“Oh, this is great,” Bilbo groans, letting his head fall back, slumping in the seat.

“But... why would he want your pictures?” Fili inclines his head, “come on, it's no big deal. I need to go, I'll be late for school.”

His bodyguard is already out of his own car and peering inside Bilbo's curiously, and Bilbo runs his hands down his face, sighing in exasperation.

“No, I... god,” he huffs, “I already had a run-in with another paparazzi yesterday, see.”

“You did?!” Fili gapes.

“Yes. It was... well, very odd. He just jumped at me out of nowhere, and asked me if I... oh, never mind. I can't go out there.”

“Asked you what?” Fili demands, “what?”

“About your Uncle and me,” Bilbo admits as if it physically pains him to do so, and Fili thinks his eyes might fall out of his sockets.

“Really?!”

“Yes. Somehow, that... guy thought, found out, I don't know, that Thorin and I are together, and he caught me entirely unprepared, so all I could do was... oh god, is he coming over here? Bert!” Bilbo hisses, motioning with his head towards the stranger, who peels himself off the fence and slowly, casually makes his way through the crowd – Fili's bodyguard frowns, but understands the situation quickly, gesturing for Bilbo and Fili to get out of the car.

“What...?” Bilbo peeps helplessly.

“Come on!” Fili prods him, “Bert knows what he's doing, he'll help. Let's go!”

“No, I – _Fili!_ ”

_ Don't pay attention to the cameras, just keep an eye on your brother and smile. _ That's what his Mom always used to say, and Fili almost grins realizing he's probably going to have to hold Bilbo's hand now, for a change.

Out of the corner of his eye, he spots the paparazzi advancing, but the reassuring shadow of the mountain that is Bert is looming nearby, and Fili hurries around the car, opening Bilbo's door for him.

“Come on!”

“I don't-”

“Your Highness! Prince Fili! Look over here!”

“Hurry,” Bert hisses, shielding Fili from the camera so far.

“Bilbo, _come on,_ ” Fili orders, and Bilbo clambers out of the car reluctantly at best... which is when the chaos _really_ kicks off. 

Fili isn't entirely sure where they came from, but one second the front yard is full of parents with their kids, and then the other, it's virtually swarming with cameras, all pointed in their faces, and all... wow, yes, all echoing Bilbo's name.

Fili straightens up automatically, sees Bert already more or less barreling his way through to the school entrance, sees people turning their heads to look in awe, sees a bunch of his friends, eyes huge... he's used to this, but Bilbo isn't. 

By instinct more than anything else, he grabs blindly at Bilbo's arm and drags him forth, uttering a short ' _just smile_ ' in his general direction.

“Professor! Professor Baggins, over here! Are the rumors true? How long have you been in a relationship with the King? When are you going public? Fili, what are your thoughts, your Uncle seeing a man?”

And so on, and so forth, increasingly more ridiculous questions, one after another, and Fili is better now at filtering them, ignoring them, he knows they just do it to get a reaction out of him, but his heart is currently speeding in anger on Bilbo's behalf.

“Don't say anything,” he utters to him hurriedly, “let's just get inside. Bert-”

“I know. Keep moving.”

They pretty much fall headfirst inside the school, Bert lingering behind them and making sure they are not followed, but Fili still wants to make doubly sure, and Bilbo and him run on, shooting looks back over their shoulder, only ever stopping atop the stairs leading to the second floor.

“Oh my _god,_ ” Bilbo huffs, but Fili is relieved to hear some hints of laughter in it, no matter how hysterical. 

“I know,” he grins, and they just try and catch their breath amidst all the laughing, and firmly ignore everyone staring.

“ _Kulhu îzunmurkh hanakun_ – Bilbo?!”

Fili plasters a hand over his mouth reflexively, and they both turn to see the Principal marching down the hallway.

“What on earth are you doing here?” she asks, in English now, “I'm assuming you are the reason my school is currently under siege?”

“Um,” Bilbo manages.

“We got jumped by paparazzi,” Fili is quicker to explain, “they're after Bilbo.”

“ _After_ him? What did you _do_?” the Principal arches her eyebrows.

“Decided to spend my life with a King?” Bilbo shrugs helplessly, “look, this is trouble. I have to call Miss Kidzulzân. And I should probably be getting out of here, but they're still out there, blocking the path to my car, and I don't know what to do, really-”

“ _Breathing_ would be a good first step,” Principal Smythe reassures him, “come on, let's go sit down in my office, we'll figure this out. Fili, off you go, classes start in a minute.”

“No, I want to stay. I can help,” Fili declares resolutely, before anyone can make the mistake of treating him like a three-year-old again.

“Thank you, but there is no way you can possibly help here, I'm afraid,” Bilbo sighs miserably, already dialing on his phone.

“On second thought, you wait here,” Principal Smythe orders, “I'll go down there, tell them to sod off. This _is_ private property after all.”

“Oh, I...” Bilbo attempts to protest, but then huffs in indignant resignation, “I suppose. Thank you – oh. Yes, it's me, hello. We have a situation...”

“They're not going to just leave,” Fili hurries to catch up with the Principal, already marching downstairs, “not before they get their pictures – they know Bilbo's inside, and they're going to wait for him to come out, for the rest of the day if they have to.”

“Fili-!” she is about to scold him, but then she frowns, as if remembering something, “don't your Uncle and Bilbo have, like, an entire _team_ of people to make sure stuff like this never happens?”

“They do,” Fili nods, “someone must have... someone must have sold the information, or something!”

“Well, it _is_ the gossip of the century, is it not,” she chuckles, but sounds immensely worried still, “oh, and so close to the Gala, too, my goodness. Alright, you _wait here,_ I'm going out there.”

“Smile,” Fili adds cheekily, and she shoots him a stern glare, before clearing her throat and adjusting her glasses and jacket alike, and striding out – the last thing Fili sees before the door shuts behind her, is Bert, probably physically keeping the wave of people away, and a mass of indignant parents and students, incapable of getting inside the school as well.

Man, what a lovely Wednesday.

“Hey, what's going on?”

He almost jumps out of his skin with the shock – but it's just his classmate Ori peering at him suspiciously from behind his huge glasses, hugging an armful of books.

“Why aren't you in class? What's with all the commotion?”

“Uh,” Fili scowls. _You are not to tell anyone outside the Palace about your Uncle and Bilbo._ But then again, it's just Ori. He's kept Fili's secrets before, and Fili's kept _this_ secret for _a year_ now. And with the way things are looking outside, it can't get much worse right now.

“Okay, listen. You can't tell anybody, alright, and I mean _anybody._ Thorin – uh, my Uncle... The King made that announcement about being gay last year, right? Right. He's been seeing Bilbo ever since. All this time. Well, actually he'd been seeing him for a while before that, but then Bilbo left, and he... _Anyway._ They're supposed to go public at the Gala! Only someone found out before that, and now all these paparazzi came out of nowhere today and they want Bilbo's picture, and he's hiding upstairs right now, and the Principal went out there, and we need a way to get him out of here somehow.”

Ori blinks, once, twice.

“Alright,” he concedes, “we have to create a diversion, right.”

“Uh,” Fili inclines his head, “yeah, but... you know you can't tell anybody, right.”

“Right, yeah, yeah, I know. Bilbo seeing the King. Good stuff. Now let's figure out a way to help him, yeah?”

Fili can do nothing but stare for a breathless moment – Ori never fails to astound him when he least expects it, honestly.

“...Yeah,” he agrees, “he needs to get to his car and out of here.”

“The car's up front?” Ori asks, and when Fili nods, he frowns, pushing up his glasses in one of his trademark little gestures, one that means he's currently thinking at the speed of light – he looks so unassuming, and yet Fili has learned quickly that that fragile exterior hides a pretty formidable mind.

“And we don't want any of them to see him?”

“Yeah,” Fili sighs, “but they're like vultures. They'll follow him anywhere.”

“Or,” Ori smiles brightly, like he himself doesn't really realize his cunning, “they'll follow someone who looks like him. Okay, here's what we're going to do.”

 

-

 

“They did _what?_ ”

“I'm telling you, it was like something out of a bad movie. Except that it worked, thank goodness. I don't know if I'll ever see my coat again, though.”

Thorin huffs a laugh, but his insides are still crawling – definitely too close for comfort, and so close to the damn Gala, too. At least they have his nephew and his friends, saving the day. It's obviously true, what they say about a child's imagination coming up with solutions where an adult would simply give up – dressing someone up as Bilbo, making the paparazzi swallow the bait and run after the impostor, while the real Bilbo was able to slip out quietly, and most importantly, in secret, _is_ like something out of a bad movie, but all that matters is that it worked.

And really, the developments of all this have been nothing short of cinematic all this time, anyway.

He watches Bilbo cooking while humming to himself, unperturbed and unaffected, or so it would seem, and he wonders how long their luck will hold. Less than two weeks until the Gala, and he doesn't know about Bilbo, but he himself gets a bit less certain with each passing day.

It's not that – this is something he's been striving for all this time, finally being able to be together officially, and god knows they've both worked hard enough to earn it. It's not that he's unsure about what _he_ wants.

No – it wouldn't be fair to Bilbo to doubt him. It's just that sometimes, Thorin looks at him, and sees the same man who came barging into his life some years ago, so wonderfully unchanged, and marvels at how it's even possible. Worries that... worries that Bilbo might realize what's actually happening around him, what he's agreed to, and turn away. Even though he's made Thorin promise, so many times, under so many different circumstances, never to doubt his motivations.

And so Thorin doesn't – out loud, anyway.

“You're staring,” Bilbo scolds him, never looking up from his handiwork, and Thorin smirks.

“Can you blame me?” he says in a tone of voice he _knows_ will make Bilbo roll his eyes just like that, and scoff at him.

“Control yourself, you sentimental lump,” he orders, and Thorin laughs, stepping closer instead, and wrapping his arms around Bilbo's waist.

“Why? There's no one here.”

“The bacon will get offended.”

“Oh, _the bacon_ will get offended, I see.”

It's so easy with him – he makes being casually happy look so effortless. Laughter comes easily to Thorin these days, and the comfort of Bilbo's touch is a habit he never wants to unlearn, and it's almost terrifying, realizing how drastic a change he brought about.

_ Love you _ is a given, but Thorin spends a lot of time trying to come up with ways to tell Bilbo how happy he makes him, to explain to him in  _some_ words the warmth Thorin feels when he sees him after a long day, the sense of security he gets when he sits in their apartment and realizes just how much of  _Bilbo_ has seeped into the walls, the floors,  the very  _air_ . He's in the plants on the windowsills, and the knitted throws on the armchairs, and the books in unruly stacks on the floor, and the mugs and pen caps and handkerchiefs forgotten everywhere, and he's in the very blood coursing through Thorin's veins,  and the thought of losing him is not only unbearable, it's downright unimaginable.

 

Which is why Thorin sees red and considers all sorts of violence, the second he sees Bilbo's face the very next morning, blanching, his mouth falling open almost comically, but the fear in his eyes very real, when Galadriel  Kidzulzân  shows them what she's brought.

 

-

 

She's seen quite a number of very important people lose their cool – sometimes even made sure they did – but it's true what they say about royal rage here in Erebor. _Khezrar azbadul abbad‘ekerrami_ _._ _A King's fury saws through mountains._

And the line of Durin ha ve quite the history with  fury , do they not.

Compared to all the monarchs waging impossible wars, and going mad with power, or simply going mad, His Majesty Thorin II is as tame as a kitten, but he certainly doesn't hold back when it comes to it.

“Yeah, at least we're past total annihilation right now,” Dwalin grumbles, slumping in his chair and swinging around, while she paces the room – it took them good two hours to calm things down, keep the King from all but unleashing his most lethal commandos to go murder everyone who had anything to do with the article, but for her, it's only the beginning. 

A dozen calls have already been made to control the aftermath, and she currently has people all over the city making sure the tabloid in question – _Ith-thanb_ , _The Thunder_ – is being bought off every newsstand in great numbers. It's not exactly a morally nice thing to do, but she will die before she lets anything jeopardize this venture. They've been at this for a year, it's only fair to everyone involved, Bilbo and the King most of all, that they last mostly unscathed until the damn Gala.

“Do you think he had anything to do with it? Zars’dashûn?” Dwalin asks, glaring at the blown up front page of the tabloid on his screen, as if he's hoping that alone might help.

“He doesn't have the necessary leverage in this country anymore,” she dismisses him, but that doesn't ease his scowl one bit.

“A year ago we thought he didn't have the necessary leverage to start buying commodities again, remember?” he counters, “ _you_ were the one who told me to watch out for him in every possible detail. So I'm watching.”

“Hmm. I'll find out if there is anything connecting him to _Ith-thanb_ _._ A share in the publishing company maybe. It's true that this would provide him with a good distraction, while he makes a mess somewhere else. Any news on your end?”

The tabloid page – a set of very neatly annoying pictures of Bilbo, _the King's man?,_ big block letters, truly headache-inducing – is replaced by Dwalin's file on Thranduil Zars’dashûn, and yet another ominously familiar face as well.

“Smaug Bundushar?” she inclines her head, and Dwalin sighs.

“I had my people look into that, but Zars’dashûn was always very careful, steered entirely clear of Bundushar before the revolution, and wasn't anywhere near the situation two years ago. Officially, he has greater concerns. I'm pretty sure he just didn't want to get his hands dirty.”

“A difficult thing to accomplish, before the revolution,” Galadriel muses.

“Yeah. You and I both know why he left.”

“Yes. Which is why it makes no sense for him to come back at all, _which in turn_ makes him the perfect suspect.”

“Look, we don't know that-” Dwalin starts, but she waves him off, jabbing her finger at Bundushar's mugshot on the screen.

“ _Someone_ is going to start causing much more trouble than we're ready for, and soon. Bundushar is in prison, Karkâlis in prison, _half the police force_ are in prison, but _someone_ is causing all of this. Not one unfortunately leaked tabloid article. Not one inconspicuously bought shell company. There's something bigger going on, and if Zars’dashûn isn't involved, then he can at least help us understand, I'm sure of it.”

 

-

 

It's such a tremendously busy day, he doesn't even notice at first. Mostly because they spend the majority of it apart, through no fault of their own. But still, Bilbo feels vaguely guilty, for not having predicted it. For not having _seen._ But when they bid their goodbyes in the morning, Thorin did seem perfectly fine, if a bit distracted... Has Bilbo overlooked something? Has he said something wrong, or has he misjudged? 

Perhaps he shouldn't be asking himself these questions – perhaps only one question really matters.

“How _the bloody hell_ do you lose a King inside his own Palace?”

“Well, technically, sir, we didn't _lose_ him,” the bodyguard barely keeping up with his march explains a bit unsteadily, “we know the Head of Security is with him, we just don't know... where...”

“Terrific,” Bilbo spits, “just terrific. I wonder if _the Head of Security_ considered how it might look, his charge not turning up at two scheduled points in a row. But oh, they're _together,_ so _obviously_ there's nothing to worry about.”

“Mister Fundinsson's tracker shows they never actually left the Palace premises, and he did notify the security room about forty five minutes ago about an unprecedented change of plans, but he never requested any of the alert protocols, so of course we trusted his judgment...”

Bilbo barely listens. There has not been a single day that Thorin hasn't shown up for their dinner with the boys, not without legitimate reason, and even if he did decide to do something else at the very last minute, he'd make sure to let them know... Bilbo is currently doing his very best not to think of any worse scenario than 'forgot what time it was'.

His cell rings, and he picks it up with such vigor, marches forth with such determination, that he almost collides with some poor unfortunate maid around the next corner he turns.

“Balin! Yes, have you found him?”

“Not yet,” the Chief of Staff delivers the news quickly, “not in his offices, not in mine. I'm at the security headquarters now, we're going through all the cameras. You know the only place they don't reach-”

“I do. I'm headed there now,” Bilbo sighs, and ends the call resolutely.

His heart only ever truly sinks when he all but rams the door of their apartment open, and instantly _knows_ it's empty of Thorin – it's just a feeling, something he can recognize immediately, and that's when it hits home. That something might have actually happened.

But the apartment isn't totally empty, it turns out – Thrain rests in his wheelchair, by the far window, as he so often does these days, wandering off to escape his caretakers, or simply just because he enjoys the view, they're never sure.

“Oh, there you are,” he grunts when he notices Bilbo, “I've been trying to force my assistant to make me some tea for ages now, but none of them can really make it the way you do. Could you brew me a pot?”

“I would love to, but I don't really have the time right now, I'm afraid,” Bilbo sighs, “say, was Thorin here? Have you seen him in the past... hour?”

“Not really,” Thrain frowns, “he never knows how to stop, does he.”

“Tell me about it. The problem is, _no one_ has actually seen him in the past hour... Oh, it doesn't matter. I don't want to worry you. I'll be back later to make you that tea, alright?”

“He's gone off again, has he.”

Bilbo stops, already halfway out the door, and turns back to look at Thrain, who watches him calmly, smiling even, from his spot by the window.

“Again?” Bilbo asks, “did he used to do that a lot, then?”

“On occasion. When he got nervous.”

“Oh. Hmm, well. Did he happen to have a particular... place he liked to go?” Bilbo sighs.

“When he was in his teens, he did, of course,” Thrain chuckles, “now? How would I know? He never tells me anything.”

“It's the worst, isn't it. Still, would you mind telling me where he used to go back then?”

“Always the park,” Thrain shakes his head fondly, clasping his hands in his lap and looking out the window, and if Bilbo weren't so on edge, he'd spend more time thinking about how amazing it is, that he can still remember so much, after everything he's been through, all those memories he's shared with him over the years, like stories out of a book long unopened.

“His brother and sister would always play in the park, and I believe they thought there was some treasure or something beyond the cemetery, you know, because we never let them go that far. Not until he took them there one day, anyway, _Yâkùlib_ _Mahal,_ I don't think I ever scolded him as much as I did that day...  Oh, you're leaving?”

“Thank you,” Bilbo grins, already halfway out the door, “come to think of it, you probably should have scolded him even more.”

 

It's getting dark out, and the Gala is tomorrow. Bilbo marches on walkway after walkway, a bodyguard in tow, and he doesn't need to look back to feel the mass of the Hurmulkezer behind him – like it's watching warily, like this is his last test, to finally prove he really belongs here.

He can smell spring in the air, but the nights still have that chilly edge, and soon, it's going to be far too cold to be wandering out, and if Thorin catches a cold the night before the bloody Gala, Bilbo's going to actually kill him...

The bodyguard's voice speaking softly into his headset is the only reassuring sound as they delve deeper into the park, away from the Palace and in between the trees, their branches creaking and foliage whispering in a wind that is gentle now, but won't be a couple of minutes later.

Entering cemeteries at dusk has never really been Bilbo's favorite pastime, and so he makes sure the bodyguard walks next to him, and probably bores a hole into his skull with his incessant complaining about the lack of punctuality in the royal family, but it's better than keeping quiet, and definitely better than thinking about what could have happened that made Thorin make the trip here in the first place.

Dwalin cuts an entirely too menacing a figure, standing by the far wall of the cemetery, and Bilbo isn't even sure it's him until he notices them, and groans in his telltale exasperation.

“Oh, good, you're finally here. Maybe you can convince him to come back inside.”

“What the hell happened?” Bilbo exclaims, “why did you come here? Why haven't you been checking in for the past _hour_?!”

“Hey, don't ask me, ask your soon-to-be official partner,” Dwalin retorts, unusually grumpily even for him, “I only found him about twenty minutes ago – yeah, don't look at me like that. He gave me a Code Blue, I thought he was with _you!_ ”

“Well, obviously he wasn't!” Bilbo hisses, “you just let him get away?”

“This might surprise you,” Dwalin groans, “but he's not a child, you know... I'm sorry. He's fine. He is. I think he just needed a moment of peace. He's over there by the Princess's grave. _Please_ , go talk to him.”

And so Bilbo does, and approaching him standing there by the lone gravestone, he feels hesitant, properly hesitant, like he used to when he first came here, and had absolutely no idea how to find his way to Thorin at all.

“Honey?” he says quietly, “are you alright?”

He wouldn't exactly categorize the feeling he gets when Thorin turns to him slightly, as relief.

“I'm fine,” he replies, and it sounds way too hollow, “I'm sorry, I – I just needed some fresh air.”

“Fresh air,” Bilbo repeats, coming to stand by Thorin's side, “you disappeared for _an hour._ Have you been here all this time?”

“More or less. I'm sorry if I worried you. I needed to get away.”

The sun is lazily reaching to meet the horizon, the sky a fantastic palette of rich purples and oranges, and below it, the city is beginning to shine, like countless fireflies coming to life. But Bilbo doesn't really care for the view – he stands in front of Thorin now, just so he can see his face, just so he can make sure...

“Thorin,” he murmurs, “tell me what's wrong.”

It would be better if there were _some_ emotion in his face – but no, he's completely still, cold as stone, one of his professional expressions, Bilbo knows, skillfully hiding the turmoil behind it.

“I didn't mean to worry you,” Thorin repeats, and the tone of his voice makes Bilbo's gut crawl.

He reaches for his hand – entirely too cold – and grabs it with both of his.

“Well, you know what, it's probably far too late for that,” he says earnestly, and a small frown ripples Thorin's forehead.

“I've always worried about you,” Bilbo explains, “and I always will. Now tell me what's bothering you, please.”

Thorin looks from him to Erebor below them, its glow reflecting in his eyes, and his jaw clenches as he thinks, and briefly but with no less intensity, Bilbo feels very small. Very insignificant, and further away from Thorin than he's felt in a long while.

But then Thorin's fingers close around his, and some of that familiar warmth seeps back in.

“I've been taught not to wish for anything, you know,” he says, hoarsely, and Bilbo knows his train of thought immediately. “And then you came along, and I learned... something else. To be a little bit selfish again. To-”

“To love, yes, I know, Thorin, _darling,_ ” Bilbo interrupts him, kindly but firmly, “is that what this is about? You're worried you're being too selfish? We've talked about this, haven't we? You love me, I love you, we're both in this for the long run. This is what we _both_ want.”

Thorin blinks a couple of time, as if this isn't about the billionth time he's heard these words in the past year, but still, he doesn't look back at Bilbo.

“What are you worried about?” Bilbo proceeds to ask him cautiously.

“You,” Thorin replies quite simply, and disarmingly.

“ _Me?_ Why? I'm perfectly fine!” Bilbo chuckles, “and unlike you, I'm not just saying that to make my significant other feel better. So out with it.”

“You left once,” Thorin says very quietly, as if he's struggling to even get the words out, “when things got too overwhelming for you, you... you left, and I had to let you, I didn't have a choice-”

“Oh,” Bilbo exhales, his stomach all but flipping over, his heart beating painfully somewhere in his throat, “oh, no. Thorin. No.”

He takes a step even closer to Thorin, grabbing both his hands, regaining his attention.

“After everything...” he starts so unsteadily, his voice cracking so that he has to start all over again, “after everything we've been through, you still think... Thorin, _look at me._ ”

He complies, though there's still reluctance there, and far too much obvious hurt for Bilbo's liking.

“This has been the most difficult year of my life so far,” he says plainly, and even though Thorin averts his gaze again, he presses on, “but it has also been the most _wonderful_ one, Thorin, _my goodness._ But you know what? I'm pretty sure it's nothing compared to what's coming. Did I see myself ending up on the front pages of tabloids when I was growing up? Definitely not. But god, all of it, all of this... It's worth it, do you understand? We've been through so much-”

“I've put you through so much-”

“I've put _myself_ through so much,” Bilbo interrupts him sternly, pushing his words out past the sharp pain in his throat becoming a bit difficult, but he does it anyway, “just to be with you. Just for that one single opportunity, do you understand? Yes, I went away once, but the circumstances then were _so much different_ from the circumstances now, honestly!”

The wind picks up, cold and unpleasant, but Thorin is as warm as ever, and when Bilbo brings one of his cold hands to his lips, he knows he's getting through.

“There was a time,” he whispers, each word a brush of lips against Thorin's knuckles, “when I didn't believe I could ever be with you. That's why I left, because being by your side was something so... impossible, so ridiculous, I didn't dare hope for it. Hell, I convinced myself it could never happen, but then you were there on my doorstep, getting _drenched_ by disgusting London rain, and you made me believe in the impossible again, you big oaf.”

A shuddering sigh escapes Thorin, and he hangs his head, and Bilbo stands on his tiptoes to kiss his forehead.

“I told you a hundred times before,” he chuckles, “and I suppose I shall tell you again – I have no plans to leave you, none whatsoever. I love you, and frankly, I find it hilarious that you'd think a bunch of paps getting a bit rude might make me change my mind.”

“But that was just the-”

“Just the beginning? Yes, Thorin, I _know,_ ” Bilbo grins, “and you know what? I _can't wait_ for the rest to come, and try and get between us. Good lord. They'll probably spend _years_ pegging _me_ as the sensitive one, while the real drama queen here is obviously _you._ ”

Thorin is laughing now, though still a bit tentatively, and Bilbo's speeding heart calms down a little bit.

“I'm not going anywhere,” he murmurs, against Thorin's lips now, “do you believe me?”

“I just want to-”

“Do you believe me?” Bilbo repeats, and seals it with a kiss that leaves little room for an argument – and yes, there it is, Thorin's lips spreading into a smile.

“I believe you,” he sighs.

“Well, good,” Bilbo sniffs indignantly, taking a step back and regarding Thorin with a mock-stern eye, “because you're stuck with me, I hope you know.”

The wind really is cold, and tomorrow... well, Bilbo can't even really imagine what's going to happen tomorrow, but he _does_ know it'll jumpstart an entirely new era of their lives, and here they are, just two idiots trying to figure it out as they go. It's going to be grand.

“I think I can live with that,” Thorin replies, and that tension hasn't gone entirely, but it will, at some point. Hopefully at some point later tonight.

_ Yeah, _ Bilbo thinks as they walk back to the Palace hand in hand,  _it's going to be quite an adventure, isn't it._

 

-

 

“Worried?”

She takes him by surprise, turning up at his side completely out of nowhere, and he makes a mental note, not for the first time and probably definitely not for the last, to figure out how she does it, escape his notice so thoroughly.

“It's a bit too late for that,” he grumbles, and she laughs, almost unnaturally cheerfully – but then again, he reminds himself, that's her job, to always look on top of things, _especially_ tonight. A camera might point her way any time.

“Zars’dashûn is already here, I'm watching him,” she says casually, “I figured we'd talk to him after the hype dies down a little bit – I'm sure he's going to want to steal at least a bit of the spotlight.”

“Gotta make sure he doesn't leave before we get the chance,” Dwalin utters.

“I'll take care of it,” she nods, and proceeds to fill him in on something entirely unimportant, and so he's allowed to filter it, and listen to the chatter of his men on the security frequency, and scan the amassing crowd warily.

Every damn time – every damn time, he thinks nothing worse, more difficult, can happen to this royal family, and then they go and prove him wrong. The Gala has been becoming more and more of a nightmare, security-wise, for years now, and now they've decided to go and add the announcement to it, dear god.

“It's time,” Miss Kidzulzân announces just when his men do the same on their speakers, and Dwalin sighs.

It's always so troublesome, witnessing history in the making – no one ever pays much attention to security measures.

 

The media will later call it ' _a tremendous evening with the most pleasant twist_ ', or ' _the smoothest reveal of the most unexpected news_ ', or any number of other superlatives that suggest it was a huge success, but Dwalin would give it about a B minus, really. Bilbo and Thorin handle themselves well enough, but the journalists don't follow rules, like they tend to do, and _none of it_ is running on time thanks to those two extra minutes the happy couple take to talk to people in person, and two minutes might not stand for much in anyone else's world, but in Dwalin's, they are the difference between a calm job well done, and the struggle not to shout people into submission as the whole debacle comes crumbling down...

But really, none of that should matter – it's his job not to make it matter to anyone but him and his team, because this evening isn't about them. It's about Bilbo and the King, and making sure everything around them runs like well-oiled clockwork, so that all that they have to worry about is not letting go of each other's hand, and keeping their smiles going for hours on end.

“I gotta say, if I didn't know him, I'd say he's a pro at this,” he utters, the only couple of seconds of calm he gets, and _that_ requires forcing himself to believe in his men enough to take care of the couple, and Miss Kidzulzân scoffs at him.

“You people have spent so much time underestimating Bilbo,” she declares, “ _and_ thus insulting all the hard work I've put into making him presentable.”

“You make him sound like a show dog,” Balin chuckles into his glass of wine, and she raises one perfectly groomed eyebrow, not disputing it in the slightest.

“No, honestly,” she says, looking impossibly smug and pleased as they all watch the King and Bilbo laughing and all in all looking entirely natural talking to this or that group of people not too far away, “he's got what it takes. He's one of a kind, and he's _the first_ of his kind, and that's his advantage.”

“ _Now_ you're making him sound like an alien,” Dwalin remarks dryly.

“And in a way, he is – oh. It's him. Let's go.”

Dwalin's heart sinks a little bit when he he sees the familiar tall, pale figure approaching Thorin and Bilbo, obnoxious long platinum hair and that unmistakable swagger.

Both him and Galadriel are back by the couple's side in the blink of an eye, before Zars’dashûn even has the time to gain their attention, and when he does, they're ready to intercept.

“Well then,” the Duke smiles broadly, “that was certainly... unforeseen. Congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Thorin smiles, and it's about as warm as Zars’dashûn's own greeting, “a pleasure to have you here.”

“Yes, hmm. A pleasure to meet _you,_ ” the Duke turns to Bilbo himself, “in a more... official capacity, now.”

Dwalin sees the frown creasing both Bilbo's and Thorin's brows in an almost ominous unison, but they're both equally good at pushing past it, it seems.

“Forgive me, but I actually don't recall meeting you in person before, officially or... otherwise,” Bilbo says perfectly politely, and Dwalin has the perfect position, willingly unseen and lingering in the background, for him to observe everyone's personal little reactions – it's like a theatre of fake facial expressions, and he doesn't think he'll ever be getting tired of it.

“Well, I knew of your existence as the Princes' guardian, of course,” Duke Zars’dashûn explains amicably, “though I never could have dreamed you have been so much more than that, all this time. But that is, after all, a testament to the excellent work of your team, I'm sure. Miss Kidzulzân, what a pleasure to see you again.”

“Your Lordship,” she replies curtly, and Dwalin would pay good money to find out what the history is right there. Or maybe he values his life more.

For now, he just watches Thorin very closely, for any sign of a reaction, but so far, he's keeping his impenetrable polite smile in place more or less effortlessly, it seems – Dwalin wonders if he told Bilbo. If it's even something worth telling. Or, alternatively, if it's any of Dwalin's business, hah.

In the meantime, Bilbo, being his overly kind self, starts a conversation about the Duke's children taking a liking to the Princes, and Dwalin has the room to exchange a couple of glances with Miss Kidzulzân – the Duke _breathes_ suspicious simply by the way he's standing, but that's not enough proof of anything, now, is it.

“Excuse me, Your Majesty,” Dwalin says entirely automatically when the hail comes on his speaker, “it's time to step outside.”

“Oh... of course. Yes, the fireworks,” Thorin looks momentarily confused, but Bilbo mutters something to him that makes him smile entirely out of the blue, and Dwalin breathes a sigh of relief when he can follow them as they part from the Duke, leading the crowd outside to the terraces.

It only takes a couple of pointed looks and gestures for his men to take tight control of the situation from all angles, and he hangs back, not enough to get in anyone's way, but close enough so that he can listen in – Miss Kidzulzân has effortlessly kept the Duke company, and sarcasm drips from their every word.

“-and you've done a lovely job of keeping this under wraps for so long,” Zars’dashûn declares, and she laughs, not really a warm sound in any way.

“Why, thank you. It was no small feat, keeping everyone in check.”

“I can imagine, my god. Even raising the issue in the past year was grounds for hitting a very well constructed brick wall.”

“And you would know about that, would you,” she asks, but Dwalin can hear the warning, ominous undertone there.

“Oh, come now, I like to be informed,” the Duke chuckles, “there's nothing wrong with that.”

“Up to a point,” she retorts.

“Even after all this time, I can still recognize when you're suspicious of me.”

“You're not exactly denying me a reason to be.”

“What on earth do you want me to admit to this time?” the Duke laughs amicably, and already outside, Dwalin moves around as if scoping out the perimeter, trying to circle around them and stay close enough to continue listening in, while still keeping an eye on the two people he should _actually_ be preoccupied with.

“-not accusing you of anything,” he hears Miss Kidzulzân hissing in a tone that is very unlike her when he finally manages to find a good spot among the crowd, “but I should like to think that you're too smart to try and pull something _now._ ”

“I assure you I have absolutely no idea what you're talking about.”

“Oh, so you deciding to return to the country _just after_ Bundushar had been jailed, that was just a very convenient set of coincidences.”

“Well, for me it was,” the Duke agrees, “the air here seems so much more pleasant than fifteen years ago, wouldn't you agree.”

“I'm watching you,” she all but snarls, and Dwalin ponders interfering.

“And I you,” comes a seemingly playful, but entirely ominous, answer.

“I swear to god, if you are up to _anything,_ I _will_ find out, and I _will_ -”

“Miss Kidzulzân! I was wondering when I'd run into you. Oh, and you two are still on speaking terms, that's excellent.”

_ That  _ voice makes Dwalin turn on his heel quicker than he can really think about it, and really, it  _is_ him, tall hat and tailcoat and cane and everything.

“Doctor Grey,” Galadriel exhales, somewhat dumbfounded, eyes scanning the crowd for Dwalin, “hello.”

“Hello to you too. Wonderful work, this. Congratulations. Oh, and Mister Fundinsson, there you are. Didn't I tell you? Healthy suspicion is the strength of this staff.”

That last sentence is addressed very jovially to Duke  Zars’dashûn  himself, and Dwalin and Galadriel exchange a confused look, while the man smirks.

“What is going on here? You two know each other?” Galadriel demands sternly.

“Oh, my dear, of course we do,” Gandalf smiles broadly, “we go way back, and I'm so pleased we are meeting like this, all of us.”

“You have something to say, say it,” Dwalin growls.

“You always make everything sound so horribly tense,” Gandalf all but giggles, “we're not here tonight to throw accusations and suspicions around, now, are we. Look at them, so happy.”

“Yes, we've worked very hard to make them that way,” Miss Kidzulzân says resolutely, “and I won't have anything ruining that, do you hear me?”

“And you believe something might?” Grey sounds genuinely concerned. Dwalin groans.

“Look, we've been keeping tabs on _him,_ ” he jabs a finger at the Duke, “for a while now. We know he's not here just to settle back into all his old villas and grow old in peace. I should have known _you_ are involved.”

“Involved in _what_ exactly?” Gandalf maintains that mysterious smile, but the Duke raises his hand, sighing.

“Alright, alright, you two. I didn't come here to ruin your precious royal couple's happiness. It's actually rather beneficial for me, you know. And I would have expected the benefit of the doubt, _at least,_ after everything. But alas.”

Up ahead, Theo Gabilaz, the evening's eccentric host, starts his speech that has people cheering and clapping, and Thorin and Bilbo take the stage with the Princes just as scheduled, and for once, Dwalin diverts his attention elsewhere.

“There are whole files on _you,_ ” he continues his new-found tradition of pointing at sly important people, “associating with former supporters of Bundushar's. We _know_ you bought that mine for a reason, _and_ that you're lobbying to get a share in Moria, which is going to start meddling in politics again, if not next year, then the one after that-”

Zars’dashûn  laughs, a bright, cold sound, and Dwalin and Galadriel exchange a telling look.

“You've certainly done your homework, haven't you,” the Duke sighs theatrically, “and it never occurred to you that I might not be doing any of those things for... villainous reasons, I suppose. Always so quick to place blame, this country. I should have remembered.”

“You're not doing a very good job of convincing me of your altruism,” Galadriel utters.

“Well then, maybe I can help with that,” Gandalf butts in, and if Dwalin didn't have a headache before, it's certainly coming on now.

“You,” Miss Kidzulzân frowns.

“Indeed. I enlisted the Duke's help some time ago, and our cooperation has been very fruitful so far. Wouldn't you say, Your Lordship?”

“Hmm. Certainly makes my return to Erebor that much more interesting.”

“I can _assure you_ that what we're working on only has this country's best interests at heart. You two are correct in assuming that the dangers coming our way are far from over, but neither me, nor the good Duke here, are the source of them.”

“And I suppose you can tell me who is, then,” Galadriel glares intensely enough to scorch lesser men where they stand.

“All in due time, my dear,” Grey smiles amicably, and her features don't shift an inch, ice cold indignation.

“He doesn't know either,” Dwalin points out, but before he can confirm his suspicions in Gandalf's face, the fireworks go off, and they all turn their heads instinctively – and when Dwalin looks away, it is to see Grey and Zars’dashûn making their way away through the crowd.

“Let them go,” Miss Kidzulzân says, and she sounds like she's having a difficult time not running after them herself.

“I was so sure we were going to get a confirmation,” Dwalin grunts.

“So was I.”

“So?” he inclines his head, both of them watching the King and his new official partner, “what now?”

Above them, the sky is painted in bursts of bright colors, a magnificent display that Dwalin can't bring himself to pay any attention to, and when he does finally look at her, she's smiling still.

“Now,” she declares, as they unanimously decide to make their way to where they really belong, by Thorin's and Bilbo's side, “it gets _really_ interesting.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well this one took forever, and I'm sorry - for some time, coming back to this story was a bit difficult. It was so much fun, writing so many different POVs - I originally really wanted to discover the big coming out Gala in more detail, but then we already had a Gala two chapters ago :) I hope that bit with the Palace employee chatting with her friends wasn't too crude :'D but I figured that IS how actual people would definitely react at some point. And Thorin HAS earned himself a lot of new admirers ;)  
> I WAS going to add one more chapter, but then life happened, and I came back to this universe to deliver an entire epilogue, to be found [HERE](http://archiveofourown.org/works/13729410/chapters/31542876). It felt like the right thing to do, and the story perhaps does remain vague, but it also feels completed now. Thank you all for sticking with me throughout this thing! <3


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